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Marcos woke to the bitter cold chilling his bones. His partner had stolen the blankets through the night and in his failing sleep he stayed exposed and freezing. He had spent most of the night in corporal stillness but actively and consciously farming his mind, sifting through the silt of memories and turning his expectations over and over, trying to shed the doubt and uncertainty that been clinging to them relentlessly. A foreboding sense of failure knocked at the vault of his subconscious, demanding to see the light.
He had spent the whole night on his side listening to The Woman breathe, knowing too well that she was on her side, listening to him breathe, knowing too well than neither was asleep, but both unwilling to wake the other, for a constant fear and distaste for discourse.
At some point, he blacked out when his mind had given in to his conscious submission but his sleep was broken in the early hours by the sound of breaking glass and acquiescent screams. It stirred him only momentarily before the weight of the done day heavied him back into unconsciousness.
The rest of the night played out like the day before. He tossed and turned, finding no peace in his conscious disconnection; being begged, buggered and besieged by something deep within as a warmth within him slowly started to melt the ice that had for so long, kept the mischievous currents of the river of his subconscious emotions still and abiding; unmoving and non-affecting. But as the ice thawed, so too did the feelings that he thought had diminished; memories he thought had been dealt with and a ligation to his partner he thought he would never have to endure again.
The new day was freezing. A blanket of grey settled above the rooftops bringing with it an intense cold that bled through the walls and scraped its way into Marcos’ bones making the first steps oppressive and torturous. He thought about crawling back into bed and lying close to The Woman warming his body against hers.
He thought about her hand against his thigh and he felt sick when he remembered how he had dismembered her affection. He wanted to say ‘I’m sorry’. He wanted the reason to exist so he could find it; he wanted a name to exist so he could define it, and he wanted a shape to exist so that he could expel it.
He watched over her as she slept just as he had done the day before, feeling so much less like had ever been and seeing her once as she was; before they had started to drift into this quieted acceptance. As he lent in to touch the white skin of her leg left naked against the pull of the sheet, a strong wind roared through one of the open windows of his apartment dragging him from his stupor into a state of alert and awake.
As always, he spent the first moments of his new dawn looking out over the sprawling downtown and onto The Nest knowing that at this time, Children would be waking to the sound of an old rooster croaking, Mothers would be calming their anxiety and Fathers would be sharpening their tools to tend to the day’s work. Below him, though, a difference moved about; albeit, in that difference, a complete lack of movement.
There was an eerie silence below on the street; an uncommon calm as if the sea had been abruptly swept up, only to sit out in the distance beyond one’s sight; in the revelry and naive splendour of one’s complacency, building strength, building number and very soon, bringing a reckoning back from whence it came.
He stared below his window where normally he would count the tops of heads as they shuffled past his window, down past the row of buildings until they turned the corner near the old cathedral in direction of the town centre where they would claim their title to a place in line starting their day exactly how they had started the day before and in essence how they had lived out every day of their lives, drudging through the mania of expectation and assuming the onerous and asphyxiating terms of civil servitude, accepting whatever has been handed out.
The want in his eyes grew hungrier as he scanned left and right, here and there; along the paths below and through the maze of streets out beyond the cathedral that webbed their way down to the momentous outer walls of The Nest.
He expected to see to what he had become accustomed over many new dawns; the colonic travel of people through the early morning chill, bustling to get where their expectation urged them to be.
This sight wasn’t to greet him.
There was nothing, nothing at all but a few tiny specs of sand being pushed around by a strong breeze, swirling up into the air and falling back down only to be swept up once more in the centre of the road, beneath his window.
He watched the cloud of dust form and then deform from a solid animate face of the cold torrent that chilled his bones to a quiet emptiness devoid of life and substance sinking back into the cracks where the tangible folded over the surreal.
His heart started to race and his blood warmed once more. He gripped the railings, squeezing until his knuckles turned white and around his fingers burning red. He tried to focus his thoughts before reason once again slipped.
It was happening too much in the past days; an abandon of control he had never before endured and the thought of slipping now frightened him. Imagine, coming so far, and ending up being wrong. He looked over at The Woman and what he felt when he looked at her body wrapped in the thin sheet was a concern.
He had felt many things while with her, in the same way, a man would feel while entering a cold shower or running one’s hands through a field of bright red poppies or feeling the tantalizing shiver as a cool breeze washed over sun-drenched skin; feelings one might feel alone or in the company of friends. Love; he always imagined, was this but for the first time he looked at his partner and saw her fragility as a thing of beauty and in that beauty was a provenance of worry for what may come, for what he may have to do and for what had been left undone and unspoken all of these years.
The weight of his responsibility heaved at his conscious mind pulling him in and out of focus, obliging his eyes to confuse his sight between real and delusion, wrong and then right. His hands clenched the cold bars and his fingers; frozen in the morning chill, went numb giving his focus a centre, itself having a latch and remaining at one.
He felt that at any moment he would lose his mind and it scared him to death thinking about what might await him in his sub conscious oblivion and which of his clan might be stupid enough follow.
What had he done?
What did he think he could do?
What on earth was he thinking?
Damn god?
Condemn nature?
Save humanity?
Everything was falling apart.
The threads on his cheap fabric had been pulled well before he thought of dressing himself. All of these people, counting on him, on an idea because they believed in him because they believed in an idea. An idea; that was all this was. A thought in one man’s head, a shared delusion, an accepted truth; belief.
Was there greater truth in a common delusion?
Which were truer, the delusions he swung to or those that he clung to?
There came rapid banging on the apartment door. Marcos; already concerned, became startled. He reached for a pistol that sat by a counter near the window where he perched. The weapon was only one of two that he knew of, the other guarded with The Behemoth in the heart of The Nest.
The pistol had four rounds and had never been fired, at least by Marcos’ hands so he had no idea if it worked or not, he only accepted the belief that it could and hoped that any real threat would be willing to do the same thus allowing the perceived lie to act as a truth. He took the pistol in his hand and marched headstrong towards the front door holding the weapon at corporal height and looking through the glass eye through to the other side.
“What is it?” he voiced.
“Sir, we have to go, now. There is no time to discourse” said a voice behind the door.
Marcos opened the apartment door and before him stood a senior White Heart, his eyes glazed; urgency in his demeanour.
“Sir, pack what you can. It is not safe to be here. We must move you and your woman” he said as a team of White Heart
s entered the apartment circling the bed where The Woman was rousing.
“What’s happening,” asked Marcos sternly.
The senior White Heart looked to Marcos and repeated, “Sir, there is no time to discourse. We have to go. This is serious.”
The White Heart contained a respectful threat in his tone. Marcos turned to his partner who was now covering her naked body in shock at the sight of eleven men surrounding her bed. They held their backs to her, but there was still no joy in her state.
“What the fuck Marcos?” she yelled angrily.
“Shut up and get dressed, now,” he said.
The two were clothed and out the door under heavy guard in seconds.
“Wait. I forgot something” exclaimed Marcos.
The White Hearts halted and allowed Marcos to run back up the stairs. He entered the apartment and ran towards a chest that sat near the open window. He opened one of the drawers and snatched a stack of papers, folding them crudely and shoving them into his pocket. He took a quick glance outside and around his dwelling then strapped the pistol to his lower inner leg and ran down the stairs after the others.
“What’s happening Marcos, I’m scared,” The Woman said, not thinking about how real it sounded this time when she spoke these words.
“I don’t know. Just stay close. Everything is going to be fine. I’ll protect you” he said and the love in his voice; be it feigned or felt, carried through to the worry in her heart and she fell still and calm.
When they reached The Nest there was rampant commotion at the front gates. Normally four White Hearts and a one-armed man safeguarded the entrance. This morning there were over a hundred men lined up against the structure’s walls, along the adjoining streets and completely blocking the only entrance to the facility.
There was no salute, not this morning. Marcos and The Woman, completely engulfed in White Hearts, pushed through the entrance and when inside, under lighter guard, made their way through the lobby, then out into the courtyard where this morning The Children were not at play. They then followed a path of destruction that started in the centre of the courtyard and finally came to stop at the foot of the grazing field.
The Behemoth greeted Marcos shaking his hand ascetically and directing his attention to the mounds of soil turned over and the distinct lack of colour.
“What happened here? And why the added security?” asked Marcos.
“Marcos, we are under threat; either from within our own ranks or from outside our walls. Our security has been breached” he replied.
Marcos whispered to The Woman and she left the men heading towards the crowded cafeteria where The Children all sat expectantly of morning rations. The two men walked over the field inspecting the damage. The crops were in complete ruins, some half eaten and others just torn to shreds.
The two men stopped; Marcos held a hand over his forehead to block out the sun coming through a break in the clouds as he scanned the whole field, a heavy set disappointment settling in his stomach. The Behemoth stood with his great hands on his hips. His look showed no expression. One wondered if the muscles in his face could actually hold a smile or whether they had grown and leathered into this perpetual focused yet pensive unimpressed and cynical state.
“The time has come to act Marcos. It’s time to move” The Behemoth said.
A wave of intense emotion built from his stomach, rushing up to settle just under his eyes. He wanted to cry so much. Instead, he stared in wonder and disbelief; his hands firm on his hips, his head feeling light and distant from this blatant disappointment. The tears that welled in his eyes boiled as he turned his emotion to rage throwing his voice high into the air in a long drawn vulgar guttural scream.
“How the fuck; in one day, in one night do we get to this state? What the hell happened last night? Why are the streets empty? There’s no one downtown whatsoever. It’s not normal. And now this? Why the added security? Why am I not safe in my dwelling? Why are there a hundred White Hearts holed up on the street? What the fuck is going on?” he screamed straight into the unnerved eyes of The Behemoth.
“Look at this Marcos, this destruction. What is going on Marcos is that we are in the wake of change. We can deny it and reckon with the truth. We can build bigger walls and plant better seeds, we can scream that it’s not fair until only the hoarseness in our throats compels us to silence and even then in the deafening thoughts of our injustice we can think that everything is one when in fact, we know, everything is subtracting to zero. We can ridicule the truth and find absurdity in a new direction. We can try and shame it into submission with the madness of our malignant mockery only to find ourselves picking at our own reflection. Or, we can accept that change is upon us and adapt. Marcos, change is upon us” said The Behemoth looking out over the ruined crops towards the containers the lined the end of the field.
“We have the girl now, so you can rest on that matter, but we really should look at logistics, how soon we can get The Nest mobile. I have thought long about direction and terrain. I think north-west should be our objective. We reach The Amazon, if it still exists, then we can sustain The Collective” said The Behemoth.
“You have the girl? What do you mean?” asked Marcos.
“The girl, she is in our hands. She is being Loved as we speak” replied The Behemoth.
“You collected last night? You weren’t authorised to collect. Why did you go out?” asked Marcos turning glaringly to face The Behemoth.
“We had information. It proved fruitful. We found the girl but, unfortunately, had to do away with her captor, such is the wear of war” he replied.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“I told you. She is with a Mother being Loved as we speak. She was gone less than seventy two hours so there shouldn’t be too much influence. I would like to reiterate though the importance of definite action. I suggest we meet with the generals this afternoon and put forward a mobility plan” said The Behemoth.
“What happened last night? The streets are completely dead. It’s like the earth just opened and sucked everyone in. Where did you find the girl?” he asked.
“The Child Market, ironically. That Old Drunk Bastard obviously has some close ties in here, had some close ties in here.”
“You killed him?”
“We didn’t find the old man or the woman he called his mother. We found the younger one. He was armed and using the girl as a shield, sick bastard. We had to engage, for the girl’s sake” said The Behemoth morosely.
“Why wasn’t I told of this?”
“Marcos you choose to bed out there. That’s your choice. What do you expect me to do, shout? You know you can’t go back there, right?”
“The infant we found yesterday, did it survive the night?”
“No.”
“What would you do, if you were me?” Marcos asked running his hands through the black soil.
“I’d ask a more appropriate question.”
“I can’t think of one. I can’t think of anything. Everything’s just stopped. Someone else has applied the brakes and I’m trying to push this beast along with my will, but I can’t. I’m too tired. I’ve got no fight left in me anymore.”
“Do not utter such nonsense again. You want to lose everything right now, then go ahead and advertise this pathetic moment of weakness. Marcos we have come too far to roll over and wait for death to catch up. Now is not the time for contemplation. You’re sounding like a Famined” said The Behemoth.
“Those people we saw yesterday, the one’s marching out in the distance. They’re coming here aren’t they?” said Marcos.
“Yes” replied The Behemoth.
“We’re staying,” he said looking up at The Behemoth with a sense of hope and reservation in his eyes.
“You’re making a mistake Marcos, an incredibly stupid mistake,” said The Behemoth storming off.
Marcos picked himself up and dusted himself off. His hands were black from the soil and his mind was clouded with
indecision. He looked at his comrade with a growing sense of dubiosity. The Behemoth walked back through the field and into one of the buildings.
Marcos thought for a moment of following him but instead wandered his stare out over the vacant field. There was nothing hopeful or good about this at all.
Whatever was left of their fertile ground was now destroyed. It would take weeks or even months to have this ground working again and until then, what? All they had were the reserves in the open containers at the end of the yard.
And when they depleted their reserves, what then?
Marcos walked to the end of the field and entered one of the containers. As he opened the door, brightness shone through the rows of shelves and plastic containers, and in the recesses of light, something stirred.
A Rising Fall Page 21
