The Road to Amistad

by Ken Dickson

  In our dysfunctional society, we use food for reward, comfort and even punishment. Consequently, the world is filled with people who are too fat or too thin. In our small society of changed people, there is no need for comfort or punishment. We just eat what we need to. As a result, people who were fat lost their fat, and people who were thin gained until all of them reached their ideal weight. As far as hair and complexion, they are tied to diet as well as other factors such as stress and worry, which were also gone.

  My thoughts wandered to the two changed women that I knew so well: Jessie and Emma. At the PDC, Jessie was a little on the heavy side. When I met her again, she looked remarkable, and now that Emma had settled into her new life, she’d put on a few pounds and looked healthier than I’d ever seen her. Now that I thought about it, I’d thrown out pants and bought new ones on several occasions myself. When I left Gracewood, I weighed 190 pounds; I imagined that I was close to 175 now. I patted my flat, scarred belly, feeling proud. I hadn’t really paid attention at all. Without even noticing or caring, we all became cut, simply as a consequence of who we were.

  Had it not been for the hawk and the snake, I’d be pleased by this revelation, but now, I saw the truth. We were different, and by working and living together, we were blossoming into something even more different. Although Merry and Jessie worked tirelessly to repair broken relationships, thereby finding common ground between the changed and unchanged, as a whole we continued to evolve, growing more dissimilar than the rest of society every day. As I thought that, I couldn’t help but feel that a storm was brewing.

  ***

  On May 17, 2014, the first copies of the latest National Eye, an upstart tabloid rag, left the printer destined for newsstands. Frank managed to intercept two copies: one for himself and the other for Jose. As he admired the alien-like creature filling the front cover and the main cover line touting his article “Changelings of Primera,” he glowed with satisfaction. National Eye artists often stirred up controversy, but with this cover, they really outdid themselves. Jose would die when Frank delivered the issue, but the best part was yet to come when readers turned to his article and the real mayhem began.

  Chapter 38

  ZERO TO VIOLENT

  Antone flinched as Willy opened the drawer to his desk. He was all too aware of what was in that drawer: loaded handguns, ammo and automatic knives. Thankfully, Willy was only searching for a pen and a stolen credit card. He pushed aside the tiny Beretta Pico, removed the Glock 17 and set it on the desk, and lifted a vintage but dependable Colt 1911A finally locating a BIC pen. Instead of a credit card, he found a business card amongst the clutter and boxes of bullets in the drawer. He tossed the Glock back into the drawer and slammed it closed, again causing Antone to flinch. Then, he proceeded to disassemble the pen.

  Willy made it a policy to avoid cocaine during work hours, but today was different. He’d just scored two of the best rides ever. They’d fetch a pretty penny, and in his book, that was cause for celebration. He cleared his desk of car magazines, sticky notes and empty 5-hour Energy drinks, shook some cocaine from a small Ziploc bag, lined it up with the business card and then snorted it through the tube from the pen. He closed his eyes and savored the euphoria for a few moments and then sniffed hard several times and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  He leaned back in his desk chair after that, flipping the card between his fingers. Casa Classico, it said. One of the few legit businesses he had ever worked with. He’d kept the card as a reminder of his dream to have his own family business someday. It was a shame it closed its doors. “So much for dreams,” he said, flicking the card toward the overflowing wastebasket next to his desk.

  Antone was reading the latest copy of the National Eye on one of two sofas in the room—the one facing Willy. The other sofa, at a right angle to his, faced a fifty-five-inch flat screen TV and was filled with gaming remotes, DVDs and video game discs, including the six Fast and Furious movies and the Need for Speed, Burnout and Grand Theft Auto games. To the right of the TV in the corner of the room sat a bench with several top of the line RC racecars that clearly had lived a hard life. Wire, solder, tools, bits and pieces of broken cars and several RC radios filled the rest of the bench. To the left of the TV, a broom leaned into the corner that looked, from the thick dust beneath it, like it hadn’t budged for years. Posters of nude and scantily clad women, most sporting assault rifles or handguns, filled the walls of the office.

  Despite its disheveled appearance, Willy was proud of his office, especially the fact that he didn’t pay a dime for anything in it. All of it was stolen. Except, that is, for the handguns and knives. He didn’t cut corners when his life was on the line; he paid top street-dollar for those.

  “Check this shit out. Fucking aliens in Arizona, someplace called Primera,” said Antone.

  “I told you to stay away from that bullshit. It’ll rot your brain.”

  “It’s damn good bullshit, though. They store food and weapons in two fake homes. They got two more phony homes where they train soldiers and brainwash their young. Everybody looks perfect, but secretly, it’s a fucking scam. They’re here to take over, and here’s what they really look like.” He held up the magazine for Willy to see. “Fucking moony-eyed aliens. You gotta read this.” He tossed the magazine, and it landed face up on Willy’s desk.

  Willy considered decking him, but something about the magazine caught his attention. He picked it up and studied the cover, but it wasn’t that. He opened to the article on page three. As he read, his heart raced and not from cocaine. The words tore at his soul and stoked a primal fire within him. In his jacked up state, he interpreted that as a call to action. Had he known the truth, perhaps things might have played out differently. That feeling did come from the words, but not for the reason he thought. Unbeknownst to him, the words that seemingly ate him alive were those of a killer: his brother’s killer. For some unknown reason, images of Bull’s disfigured neck played in his mind as he read.

  Fortunately for Frank, he’d learned long ago that feeding his ego could be detrimental to his chosen profession. He either refused to attach his name to articles or used a pen name. That decision ensured that his name was not the last thing that Willy read. As he finished the article, his fury peaked, but he missed the connection completely, instead attributing his rage to the moony-eyed beasts plotting to take over his world.

  “YAAAH!” he screamed and threw the magazine. It landed on the floor near two dark smudges—blood stains that proved too stubborn to remove—and slid into a stack of stolen car radios, each with a hand-scrawled piece of masking tape identifying the year, make and model of the vehicle from which it came.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Antone with a look of surprise. Willy was famous for going from zero to violent in record time, but he’d never seen him explode over a magazine, especially a bullshit rag like the National Eye. “Jesus, it’s just a fucking story.”

  Willy stood and stormed out of the room. Moments later, one of two cars they’d sworn to keep under wraps roared to life accompanied by the screeching of tires as five hundred and sixty-five horsepower transferred instantaneously to the concrete warehouse floor. Seconds later, a silver Aston Martin Vanquish with California tags tore out of the warehouse, into the nearby street and then ripped through five of its six gears before the V12 exhaust note faded.

  Twenty minutes elapsed before his return, the Vanquish looking no worse for wear than if it had just been out for a Sunday drive, despite being driven over a hundred and twenty for most of the time it was gone. That was nowhere near the Vanquish’s top speed, but it was fast as he dared go with the other I-10 Phoenix traffic seemingly at a standstill—a good fifty miles per hour slower than him. He’d barely dodge one car and another would replace it: a real life video game. He stepped out of the car and slammed the door, but the resounding whump only served as a reminder of Aston Martin quality. He smiled a half-smile as he walked back tow
ard his office. “I love that fucking car,” he muttered. Antone awaited him, a look of concern on his face.

  “You can’t be doing that shit. That’s the biggest cash cow we’ve ever landed.”

  “Fuck you.” He walked over to the radios, picked up the magazine, marched back to Antone and shook it in his face. “Where the fuck is Primera?”

  Chapter 39

  FROM FREEDOM TO FORTRESS

  Primera was no different from most other suburban enclaves. There were no security gates or block walls to keep people out. Anyone could visit whenever they pleased. On top of that, the frequent comings and goings of contractors provided ample opportunities for gossip about the unusual community filled with the oddest people around. Nevertheless, it wasn’t until the National Eye hit newsstands that all hell broke loose.

  Out of nowhere on May 20, 2014, journalists and reporters, galvanized by Frank’s article, boldly marched into Primera thrusting microphones into anyone’s face they came upon. They met no resistance from the friendly residents. It was like throwing chum to sharks. Instead of running inside and bolting their doors, the entire neighborhood welcomed them with open arms and spoke at great length about themselves and the community they so proudly built and lived in. To changed people, none of it was extraordinary, but our grand experiment would, with careful editing, raise the eyebrows of the unchanged world.

  Good news generates fleeting interest, but you can milk a bad story ad nauseam. Despite the fact that the inhabitants of Primera were in truth bright, affable and gracious, taking the National Eye’s lead, the media painted us as two-faced and dangerous. They ran with changelings, and likened us to vampires, werewolves or worse. Lies filled tabloids, magazines, and newspapers alongside depictions of moony-eyed, inhuman monsters. Our former good fortune reversed so quickly that it seemed that all the forces of evil had instantaneously banded together to destroy us. Distrust, fear and even hatred spread like wildfire. Meanwhile, the media honored cash, check or credit and lined their pockets with gold at our expense.

  Contractors cancelled commitments for the lamest of reasons, suppliers rejected orders, and then the graffiti began. Sadly, the first target was the big rock: a hundred-million-year-old chunk of earth that had done nothing but rest peacefully in the same spot for millennia.

  From there, the vandalism escalated to vehicle keying and dents. Despite numerous calls to the police, they failed to respond, claiming a lack of resources and that we were out of their jurisdiction. Emboldened by the lack of resistance, vandals returned, breaking car windows and stealing radios.

  Engineering proposed building a security gate and perimeter wall, but that seemed more symbolic than practical and would take considerable time. Security suggested creating our own police force and arming them with firearms, but Legal quickly pointed to the disaster that would follow “Primera Forms Militia” headlines. As everyone debated what to do, the problems continued to escalate: broken picture windows, slashed tires. Someone even cut down a tree.

  Finally, a solution was conceived. A two-man team, well trained in self-defense and armed with X26 Tasers and pepper spray, would walk a beat from 10:00 p.m. until 2:00 a.m., the peak trouble period. For added insurance, they would carry radios to summon more help at a moment’s notice.

  With the sudden turn of events pointing to worsening times ahead, Engineering shelved the modified, beautified plans for Amistad and resurrected the original underground design. By its very nature, that design was less pregnable and more easily defensible. In spite of that, it was feared that we would have to build it harder and deeper—a ruggedized Amistad, an ark if necessary, within which we could ride out the wave of change.

  As if I didn’t have enough to keep me busy, I wondered about others like us scattered around the world. What will become of them? I called the one man I figured could help: Conner. “In light of the deteriorating situation at Primera, we’re taking a fresh look at future plans. It’s critical that we have a secure means of communicating with others like ourselves both locally and throughout the world. Dependable, encrypted information exchange could mean the difference between life and death. Can you provide a protected means of communication?”

  “We’re already on it. Thanks to Matt’s resilient stock portfolio and Merry’s tenacity, we are in contact with others like ourselves around the world. Surprisingly, some are establishing their own fledgling communities. Our communication system will connect us securely to everyone that we know of. I’ll let you know when it’s ready to go live, and you can flip the switch yourself.”

  I sighed with relief. “You’re a life-saver, Conner. Thanks for staying one step ahead.”

  Chapter 40

  IN SEARCH OF ANSWERS

  On May 27, 2014, seven days after the media blitz on Primera, Frank’s life changed dramatically. He awoke feeling a calmness and peacefulness unlike anything he’d ever imagined. He slipped from his apartment and drove away in his 4Runner. He didn’t get far before a fountain captured his attention. He pulled over, left his vehicle, and watched it for nearly an hour, marveling at the infinite patterns of twisting water, froth and sound.

  Then, a breeze blew through nearby date palms. He closed his eyes, and as easily as one would slice a cake, he separated the splash of the fountain and the rustle of the fronds and then listened to each of them seemingly independently. A day earlier, his mind would have been too preoccupied to even notice those sounds.

  He opened his eyes and was struck by the deep contrast between the richly colored foliage of a nearby ficus tree and the deep blue sky. He noticed that the tree was alive, filled with vibrantly colored birds of diverse shapes and sizes, flitting into and out of the tree and singing magnificently.

  The biggest surprise was the stillness of his mind. There were no worries or fears, no negative thoughts at all. He felt as though he simply existed, purely in the moment. “How is this possible? Have I gone mad? Am I hallucinating?” He was not one to cry, but tears streamed down his face for the first time since Bull Lemm stabbed him. However, these were not tears of pain or regret, but of joy.

  As Frank drove aimlessly that day, experiencing life as if for the first time, a passion rose within him: an unstoppable urge to write. He had always loved writing, but now it seemed that a dam would burst if he didn’t write immediately. A Walgreens caught his attention, and he pulled into the nearby parking lot. Five minutes later, he poured a four pack of pens and a composition notebook out of a Walgreens bag. He tore the corner off the blister pack of pens, removed one, opened the composition notebook, and began to write.

  The words poured from his mind like water from an over-full pitcher: jokes, speeches, tall tales, poems, songs, eulogies, whatever came to mind. Before he knew it, it was too dark to make out the pages. When he finally stopped, he realized that the notebook was half-full. He’d written over a hundred pages. It astonished him what he could accomplish without the daily drama of his normal life running at a fever pitch in his mind. That’s when it struck him. His old life was over. He could never go back to how he was yesterday. He didn’t want to. Besides, something bigger beckoned. Just past 8:00 p.m., it dawned on him how he might find out what it was.

  ***

  At precisely 9:00 p.m., Frank pressed the doorbell of home five, the residence of the one man he knew who might make sense of what happened to him: Carlos, the patsy whom he’d interviewed for his infamous piece in the National Eye, the very same piece that right now caused misery in the lives of everyone living in this neighborhood, just as Frank had planned. Perhaps someday, he’d do penance for that, but right now, he needed answers.

  Carlos wasn’t like everyone else in Primera. He changed not by chance as they had, but by strength of spirit. Merry and Jessie helped wean him safely off medications and provided him with rudimentary tools to begin his journey, but he found his way out of the fog enshrouding his mind on his own, and in the process, became resilient. He changed not by miracle, but by choice. B
ecause of that, the residents of Primera revered him. He understood the change better than anyone else, save perhaps Merry or Ken. Frank could not have picked a better person to talk to. Expecting to see the smiling face of a neighbor, Carlos swung the door open.

  “Frank Stone. I hoped that I’d see you again.”

  “Carlos. You have an excellent memory for names.”

  “What brings you back to Primera?”

  “Some things you talked about when I last saw you struck a chord with me today. I’d like to talk with you some more. Would you care to take a walk with me?”

  “Certainly. Let me get my shoes.” Carlos picked up a brand new pair of Saucony running shoes from among several pairs of shoes in the brightly lit foyer, slipped them on, and tied the laces. He walked through the door and closed it behind him.

  “How can I help you?”

  “You spoke much of change when we met, but I hadn’t a clue what you were talking about. It was just interesting conversation to me. Then today, I awoke feeling completely different. I have to say, it’s been a most unusual day. I haven’t lived the best of lives, and until this morning, I had a lot of what you might call dirty laundry. Now, it’s miraculously disappeared, leaving me in a state of bliss. I’ve experienced some pretty incredible things between waking up and ringing your doorbell, but I have a strong feeling that it’s only the beginning. I thought that you might shed some light on what’s happening.”