Chapter 9

Jack was in hell. Worse, he was in a zoo that happened to be in hell. And it was televised.
No Gintonic. No Pills. No TV. No Escape. No Release.
He’d already smashed in the television when it only showed the channel-blocked signal – all 10,000 channels, blocked. To what end? Jack sat like a spider inside his fort of couch cushions, upended chairs and blankets. They’d turned the wall’s mirror off sometime during that first hellish night of fitful sleep. Now it was clear, honest, true, a room of cameras, every inch a glass eye following his every move. At first, he’d thought it was a mistake, someone flipped a wrong switch. It was no mistake. It was an extra little bit of torture. To be watched, shamed. Make him paranoid. Jack knew their plans. No alcohol. No TV. They all must be laughing, laughing at him. Sucking on his teeth, Jack’s eyes bugged in and out of his tight skin wrapped skull. He was naked. His clothes might be bugged. His wrist bracelet had been harder to get off. His teeth hadn’t even scratched the smooth plastic surface. The automatic can opener had. Several times Professor Tell, his keeper, his own personal watcher, the devil’s handyman, called over a monitor in the room to inquire of his health and if he had any desires. Jack had laughed back and held himself back from screaming. Desires?! Ha! Just another touch.. His food trays lay in piles by the door. It was drugged. Those mashed potatoes, they smelled of chalk and sulfur. He wasn’t going out like that. Cramps seized him again. Doubling over, Jack punched the ground with his frail fist over and over, trying to distract his brain from the hunger. Hand. Hand. Hand. Blood. Blood. Taste. Licking his hand unconsciously, Jack jerked back in horror. Self-cannibalism now. What will they think of next? Anything to make him cry out. Using the shaft of light pouring in from the air hole in his fort, Jack examined himself proudly. Good boy, he thought poking the small family of purple dots on his leg. Proud of you, all grown up, family man and all. Jack smiled with glazed eyes and then caught by a sudden fit began scratching his patchy beard madly, drawing blood, mingling with the blood from his hand.
When had he last slept? he thought as he paused. They never turned the lights down anymore to simulate darkness. It was endless. Long enough. Long enough to make him crack. That’s how long. Rasping his dry tongue against his inner cheek and rough teeth. Jack giggled. If Connie could see him now, she wouldn’t be so impressed. She’d probably be at a loss for words, quite a feat for her. No clever jokes. No brainless factoid. Just disgust. Or worse pity… Maybe even fear. Jack felt at the wetness on his face in wonder. He tasted the wetness. It was salty. Strange. Was he crying? Was he sad?
With a sudden lightening of inspiration, Jack exploded from his fort hitting his head hard on a chair leg and splitting his scalp above his right ear. He didn’t appear to notice as he ran to the Smiley’s snack vending machine and gripping the sides of it began shaking it screaming, “GIVE ME BACK MY CHANGE!! GIVE ME BACK MY CHANGE!!” The vending machine toppled over onto Jack who disappeared under it but for two hands protruding from each side.

Charles Fahey knew he was under arrest the minute the two Aryan watchdogs entered the elevator with him on the 23rd floor. He had just left the latest success of Shane Dex the Hypnotist, still in shock that he could actually be so good at something trained professionals struggled with. This time, he hadn’t even finished five when he went straight into the opening questioning. His preternatural grasp of the psyche disturbed Charles. He was almost certain he could be controlled just as easily as these men were. He finally understood that completely self-possessed look in Shane Dex’s face. No one would master him, ever. His power was great, greater than authority. He could bend men’s minds and wills. It surprised Charles that hypnotists hadn’t been used before, but then again, maybe they had. Seeing the two smiling white blonde haired blue-eyed lap dogs enter in with such confidence and even suppressed giddiness, Charles knew this was it. His career was over. He may not even make it to the next floor. They may have the orders already. He may not even feel it. Somehow that prospect didn’t lighten his heart. Harriet would never know. They stood to either side of him.
The one to his left, either Jari and Ben, he never could tell one from the other, said, “Pretty creepy stuff, eh Fahey?” A smirk and a glance to his buddy.
Debating whether or not he could finish these two off by himself flitted across him mind momently. He’d taken self-defense classes in school like everyone else, but never excelled and he’d fallen out of shape these past few years. These two chained dogs were bred to kill from their striated jaws to their corded hands. As if sensing his mood, their smiles deepened and their noses flared, mirroring each other.
The one on the left said, “Something wrong, Fahey? You look a little on edge? Something in there eating you?” Fingers working at there sides in anticipation, Charles felt his resolve flicker and fade away on the breeze. A calm rested in its place.
Charles said in a thoughtful voice, “There’s something not right about that Shane Dex. Seems like he’s better at us at our jobs. It’s worrisome. A man like that could do just about anything. Someone should pull his files, though I’m certain that he’s seen them himself and has deemed them worthy or at least rewritten them to be.” Looking Jari or Ben, whoever, to his left, in the eyes calmly, unnerved the man slightly, but a jittery bounce returned after only a split second of doubt. Keep ‘em Dumb, that’s the motto.
“Ha ha ha. Yeah, right, right,” the left man answered, hastily making a show of agreeing with Charles. “What next, right? HA!” His companion imitated him exactly.
“Okay, great,” the right man said in a slightly bored and brisk annoyed tone. He was the smarter of the two. Reaching into his coat pocket, Charles flinched and both men smiled expansively, and looked at each other knowingly. Whipping out a yellow plastic strip of paper, the right man spoke in a brisk official tone dripping with self-satisfaction, “I have here a warrant for your arrest, old boy. And I dare say, I am proud to read it to you and explain it,” his buddy latched iron-like claws around each of his arms and placed a knee into the small his back, forcing Charles to the ground. Charles felt strip cuffs close over each wrist forcing them flush together behind his back. Then his elbows touch as a cuff was lashed. His sternum cracked under the pressure. As his partner worked, Charles could hear the right man speak quickly and efficiently his charges: he was a traitor, a murderer, a thief and an embezzler. No surprises there. He felt his shoulders pulling at their sockets even as his legs were bound together. A quick loop around his neck and his was lifted to his feet with a wheezing grunt and searing pain in his shoulders. The smarter Aryan continued in a stately, mocking voice, “Now that we have your full attention, I will read you your rights. You have the right to remain silent unless you are asked a direct question. You have the right to an attorney and will be appointed one by your superiors. You have the right to a fair trail if it is deemed you are innocent prior to your court date. You have the right waive any and all of these rights if you resist us in anyway,” Pausing, and pulling his ion knife from it’s hilt at his hip, he held it pointed at the base of Charles’ heaving stomach, “And finally, you have the right to die here and now, should you plead guilty and request it and avoid any further shame and punishment that may follow from this moment on. What do you say, Chuck?”
Clenching and unclenching his jaw, breathing was an effort. Charles looked wild eyed into his captor’s eyes and managed in a rough voice, “Innocent.”
Sighing in disgust the man sheathed his weapon and shook his head. Fahey was gonna be difficult, no doubt. But then again, all the more fun to break him. Hoisting the man, one on each side, they dragged him out of the elevator and onto Basement level 6 into a containment area rarely used because of its inadequate equipment, but that was of little consequence. They didn’t need much equipment for this. Lashing Charles to a stool, and separating his elbows and hands eased his breathing and he collapsed forward hanging by his bonds, gasping haggardly.
A cool, resonant voice penetrated the air, “Not as young as we once were. Eh, Charles?”
Charles raised his head, his eyes blinking through the pain, he knew that voice. But it couldn’t be, that man was dead. He watched him die.
Smiling like a cat, Stephens-Greenspan sat with his fingers tented and his lips pursed in satisfaction. At his side stood a short fat bald man in a sharp suit with cavernous eyes watching him hungrily.

Hans Groelmich Muenster, President of the EU council, stood in front of a room full of cameras and a selection of his own handpicked crew of interviewers, a nice touch, use humanity to tame the humans, his predecessor had always said. His tight spandex suit shifted colors and designs with each sentence. His stylist had said it would enhance his speech and communicate more clearly his objectives and convictions. Smiling expansively, showing both rows of square, box-like teeth, President Muenster waved a French manicured hand. His wavy black hair was held in place with steel glue and had to be washed immediately after the interview. It was strong enough to withstand a point blank shot to the head from a handgun. It was all part show and part safety. After his predecessor’s untimely demise. It was a necessary step. One that no one had any idea about outside his dressing room. His jump suit was lightweight tritephlon and could withstand a grenade impact. It even was equipped with a new function: a bracer, when the suit was attacked it literally ‘braced’ itself against the attack and saved the wearer from being beaten to mush. It was created after his predecessor’s death. The barrage of EM gunfire had not scored his flesh but they broken every bone in his body and left his insides looking like raw scrambled eggs. Marching to the center of the room to stand on the raised platform there, the president showed an athletic stride. He was young for his station, though he was nearly 50 years old. He had been born under the EU’s rule and had never known any other. He’d never vacationed to the Appalachia like his colleagues when he was at University. He hadn’t had the luxury of an option. He worked his way through University on his own Euro and he was proud of that. His rise to power had been just as earned. Careful allegiance, diligent work, tactful honesty, suppression of egoism and classism, impeccable usage of one’s word, active listening, cleanliness and order, and most especially honor. These were the precepts that led to glory. His father may have passed into the oblivion with a black mark upon his forehead, but his son was free of his taint, and that was the true freedom of the EU’s design. Every man his own man, free enough to live to serve the EU. It was a dream come true. He was a living example. Everything from his wife to his well-behaved natural bred dog espoused his worthiness and his embodiment of the European ideal. His face was plastered across the continent as a comfort, not as propaganda, not as vanity, but as a reassuring presence, a young father with an old child. Turn his hands expansively, he drew in his audience and turned roundabout to address them. Turn your back on no one. Inviting. Smile. All encompassing. Compassion. Wait for it. NOW. Lifting his voice President Muenster said in a booming voice full of vitality and confidence, “Come One Come All! Hear me talk of great things Large and Small! Bonjour! Chow! Buenos Dias! Gutentag! ! ! ! My countrymen so varied and beautiful! We are truly God’s chosen people! He smiles on our diversity and strength! I have come to you today with an announcement of great joy and happiness. Today we expand our arms to a downtrodden nation. We turn to our brothers and sisters in Africa who once upon a time were our loyal colonies but because they desired to try to survive on their without our help, we freed them, only to leave them to be brought down by the American Lie, the deceit that captures souls and eats the heart out of the earth. Africa the Beautiful, cradle of humanity, war torn and broken. We are coming! Europe is ready and willing to free you from yourselves and lift you up again! Today we land on the Northern Coast of Africa in what was once the French Morocco and then Egypt where the Pharaohs reigned and the pyramids still stand. We come to LIBERATE YOU!”

Pa Jo and Joseph broke into a run as soon as they left the large half-flooded chamber on Pa Joe’s signal. Joseph had never felt what he’d felt in that room before. Pure evil. Something had been…waiting. Like a razor back between the rocks in the shallows, ready to cut you to shreds. Pa Jo had never given the Run signal but Joseph recognized it immediately and ran as fast as he could which was about as fast as Pa Jo who kept looking over his shoulder. Whatever it was, Pa Jo was spooked and that was enough for Joseph. He’d never seen him spooked. Running up the stairs they heard the door on the next floor open above them and they froze. Time stretched agonizingly slow. The lights went out. In the darkness, they could hear a rasping noise of something dragging along the floor towards them. Joseph felt the light hand of his grandfather’s on his shoulder, pushing him back towards the last floor, and the light switch. Joseph stumbled down the stairs. He heard a hiss underneath him and something burned his leg, but otherwise he was fine. Feeling blindly in the dark for the switch in the wall, Joseph heard his grandfather cry out and a high-pitched cackle of laughter, and as his heart rose in his throat he found the switch under his hand, and flipped it. Jumping at the sight before him, Joseph let out a strangled yell of horror. Pa Jo was shaking his arm frantically, a snake firmly attached to it. Joseph watched in horror as Pa Jo ripped it out of his arm with his other hand and whipped it against the metal bars governing the stairs. Its head popped off. Joseph noticed just in time as he saw another snake making its way towards him rapidly, slithering back and forth. Joseph went for the door. The snake was lightening quick and as Joseph went to slam the door behind him it grazed his arm just before it was severed by the crisp metal frame. Kicking the remains away, Joseph reentered the stairwell to see Pa Jo grappling with a thin stick of a man with lank oily hair. The man was snarling and making guttural noises like nothing Joseph had ever heard. It set his hair on end. Despite the burning in his leg and forearm, Joseph ran up the flight of stairs separating them and kicked the skinny man in the small of his back. The man was like a rock and didn’t even react to Joseph kick. All his attention was on Pa Jo. His teeth were bared and he reached with his mouth as if to bite Pa Jo who had the man by the shoulders and was doing his best despite his bleeding arm. His shirt was red with blood and they were both slipping in the blood on the concrete. Desperately, Joseph leapt onto the man’s back and pulled at his hair and clawed at his eyes. It worked. Too well. The man whipped, incredibly fast out of Pa Jo’s grip, and rotating his head at break neck speed latched his mouth around Joseph right hand. Screaming, Joseph, felt the man’s full weight bear down on him and his sharpened teeth dug deep into flesh. He felt the warm rush of blood on his palms and wrist. He closed his eyes. He could smell the fetid, rotten scent of the man’s breath and body. The pain was too much. His weight was suffocating him and his hand was going numb. Joseph moaned through his tears. He felt warm rain on his face and then heard a loud crack. Must have been his hand, he thought distantly.
Then a flood of light and Joseph could breath again. Everything seemed bathed in brilliance. He thought of the Bishop and his explanations of exultation and the next life. Had he parted? As his sight cleared, he saw his grandfather above him, holding him gingerly, a weak smile on his tired, ashen face. His soft voice whispered, “It’s okay now. Just another lost soul. It’s okay.”
The next few hours were a daze for Joseph. He was carried. Sometimes he even walked. Pa Jo was in bad shape. His snakebite was deep and despite lancing the wound, he was too weak to suck out much of the poison. It was already too late. Joseph had lost a lot of blood and the little poison that ran in his system was giving him a fever. They moved in a sluggish daze.
The next day, Joseph woke and his first sight was his mother and her worry-wracked face. He was home. He was safe. His first words were of Pa Jo. Silence was his only answer.