Children of the Program (10 page)

chapter 15

eyes of merlin

“We're going to need money,” said Dez.

              Exhausted, fawning and resting in a tiny make-shift couch bed, covered in foliage and debris, she rested, while he plotted.  The still moonlit sky brought out the wolves in his mind.  They shared an old sleeping bag, but rarely made love.  She often melted into his arms and stared toward the trailer ceiling, longing for a connection and to someday become his only mission.  Dez, blinded by intent and an acute demand for dominance, made her advances an unwelcome distraction.

              “If we can get more people to understand the deceptions of our government and what's going on under these very grounds, we can raise money,” he huffed.  “We need a computer, acid, and reliable transportation for starters!”

              “How about we just make our own entertainment, tonight?”

              “The government is trying to end the purity of our species and all you can think about is sex!  Ironic.  Get off of me,” screamed Dez, in an uncontrollable rage.  He frequently slipped out of his charming guise, gaining an unhealthy level of comfort with Crystal.  Outbursts scared her straight and silent.  His undisputed eruptions only encouraged his verbal abuse and extended the boundaries of his control. 

              “I'm sorry, we can start looking tomorrow,” she added, calming the quaking beast.

              Dez's charisma couldn't be overstated.  As the hot summer days passed, the cool evenings and sunsets offered relief and atmosphere to their acid laced bonfire gatherings.  He'd strum his acoustic guitar and hypnotize his followers like a Christian revival.  His vibrating strings swayed, dancing in the angel dust inspired tracers.  Dez and Crystal repeated the cycle of drawing in unsuspecting strippers and nomads from the dugouts of New Mexico.  Before long, groupthink reigned supreme and his hunger for power and the intent of his message became increasingly more sinister.  Crystal never left his side and felt empowered by his fame.  Her loyalty inspired the faith of others.

              “Our dependence on capitalism hooks our lips and quashes our voices.  We're left hanging by the rod, hoping to someday be released from the hands of their green-eyed motives.  Like slaves, we fuel a big machine — a machine they designed and we maintain.  We need to create our own law, and banks, and harness the materialistic beast that tempts our very essence with desire.  The all-seeing eye mocks our independence.  We are more than drones, or disposable pounds of flesh.  To steal their money is to barter for freedom and reclaim what was hijacked from birth.  Should they try, let no hand hold us down,” said Dez.

              “That's right,” shouted a drifting follower.

              “We're not stealing to hurt the bar, convenient store or gas station owners, we're stealing to someday protect the human race from a future threat and this attack that is threatening our way of life.  I only ask you to help me.  We should only steal what we need to grow.  No one is to get hurt.  You run before you fire!  We cannot risk a robbery drawing attention to our circle,” Dez furthered.

              After his pounding sermon, a string of robberies sprinkled fear throughout the neighboring town.  Weeks passed, and the drugs dug into their minds, like moles.  Avoiding identification, the expanding group raised enough money to purchase a used vehicle, a few military grade weapons and a new computer.  The blotted out windows in their 1996 Chevy Conversion Van offered a safe-haven from the outside world and ample protection from the law.  They continued to meet in Dez's backyard sanctuary, intent to follow his drug-addled visions — producing results reinforced their adrenaline addictions and rank.

              “I'm sure there is a lot we can learn about these children with the indigo eyes.  These alien hybrids are already amongst us.  Use this computer as a gateway to their doorsteps.  Be diligent.  Scour the Internet for information and take detailed notes.  There are literally hundreds of sites on the topic and blogs about those who profess to be special or enlightened.  It'll be important for us to find these families and to know what we're truly against!” 

              His eyes slipped into his skull like a possessed lunatic.  His tripping minions, followed.  Weeks of acid, plotting and brainwashing served to inspire their cry for revolution.  Even Dez was starting to believe his rhetoric.  He only regressed to his distant time in the desert, to combat his vivid memories and recall the dictates of The Program.  Flashbacks made his anger bleed upon the sand.  The drugs amplified his neurosis, increasing the frequency of his lucid dreams.  His sense of urgency was magnified.

              “I found a website called Children of the Program,” said Crystal, still awake from an uncomfortably long bout with ecstasy.  “It seems to be password encrypted.  It's got an indigo background.  Didn't you say the government hybrid operation was called
The Program
?”  Her voice droned, falling from lofty heights and landing upon his resting ears.  “What do you think, dreamy eyes?  Do you think you can hold it together for a couple more minutes and check this out?”

              In elation, Dez sprung to attention.  Clearing the counter of old cigarettes butts and beer cans, he aggressively leaned in and obstructed her wondering view.  His wide eyes were like saucers and his mouth frothed like a rabid animal.  He was confident he knew exactly what she'd pulled from cyberspace.  “The heavens always have the answer, don't they?  Try typing:  painted, program, council or lords,” he paused.  As he anticipated, nothing opened the temperamental site.  He slapped the monitor to diffuse.  Her shaking hands could sense his tensing anxiety.  She feared further disappointment.  “Try, Arizona or desert,” he furthered.  Excitement had quashed his aggravation.  Her keystrokes were slow and deliberate.  She knew a missed letter would amplify his blood pressure.  Before she could blink, the desert themed website opened.  “It's a goddamned miracle!”

              “It was 'desert!'”

              He pushed Crystal from the loose stool beneath her and cautiously scrolled down the unveiling screen.  She was content to leave his side and catch a drag.  He remained dumbfounded by the simplicity.  His heart skipped a beat and his eyes danced.  Taking a moment to gaze, he gasped with elation.  The password was left accessible enough for the chosen ones to decode.  It was a simple deterrent, meant to keep the outside world from bothering to care.  The site provided their full names, telephone numbers and addresses.  It also contained a small news-centered bulletin board.  Some of the profiles included pictures, bios and email addresses.  He was relieved to see the 12
th
member-area was left as, “Coming soon!”  Hastily jotting down the sites information, he bookmarked the page and shutdown the computer.

              “What is it, Dez?”  Crystal called, pacing outside the trailer.

              “It's a website dedicated to people like me.  It's a list of people who know about The Program and can possibly help us spread our mission-worldwide!  There's one fellow, in particular.  He claims to be a magician.  He lives in Israel.  The Middle East is the home of a gamut of religions and belief structures.  With funny paper, we can open minds, but with magic we can suspend the imagination.  We can show the world that sometimes the unexplainable is a mere hat trick.  This is how you expose a corrupt government!  I've got to find this man.”

              “I'll help you turn over every stone, in the morning,” Crystal offered.

              “Simon, Simon, Simon,” he breathed.

+++

              Though it lacked prudence to openly discuss The Program, for once, Simon welcomed transparency.  He struggled with his identity and new sense of obligation, longing to share his experience with the unwitting.  Most dismissed Simon’s tales, assuming his stories were the preface to another magic trick or a heretical illusion aimed at garnering their attention.  Some passersby did believe his words and drew closer to his unveiling.  They had nothing else. 

              Simon didn't want to know the answers to life's mystery.  He wanted to practice magic in the shadow and mystique of creation.  As word spread of his audacious claims and obsessions, his relationships with family and friends became strained.  His gimmicky street performances began drawing more ridicule than adoration.  He felt shunned and scrutinized by the world he was sent to save, only adding to his mounting inner conflict.  His twilight was cursed.  He could still hear the hecklers scream, “He's crazy!” and “He's a fraud,” while trying to find a few fleeting moments of tranquility.  With each day, he became more isolated.  His tricks had lost their audience and his money was growing scarce.  He had buried his future in Israel.  Damned by his revelations, he knew there was no turning back.  The same crux that drew his words was the same that would draw his unraveling.  People didn't want to know the truth — they just wanted to live. 

              “Perhaps it's time for me to disappear,” he thought. 

His phone cried with synchronicity.

              “Is this Simon?” asked a gravelly tone.

              “Yes, may I ask who is calling?” asked Simon.

              “It's Dez, from the desert.  I'm sorry I tore out of there, without saying goodbye, but I was rattled by the news of our mission.  There were so many terrible memories lurking, beyond the cobwebs of my consciousness.  I'd have been happier to forget it all.  Can you believe how many people we've known?

              “I know,” returned Simon.

              “It's crazy!  I don't know how you feel about everything, but I am overwhelmed,” said Dez.

              “I'll admit, it's not sitting well with me,” offered Simon.  “My entire life is centered on suspense and mystery.  I didn't want to go behind the curtain and I'm certainly not programmed to allow others to peak.  Besides, who would want to know?  It voids the authenticity of our existence, and siphons any true meaning from our experiences.  We're sent to struggle, feel pain and engage in temporary relationships.”

              “This is true.”

              “Yes, but now, success is being asked to forget everything and everyone and to become one with nothingness.  I believe the lucky ones got it right before having to choose or ever having to know.”

              “Wow, you've given this a lot of thought,” returned Dez.  “Look, I'm in a similar boat and was thinking we might be able to help each other.  I'm trying to build a support group, aimed at generating awareness.  If you're interested, I'd love to fly you out.  We'd love for you to join us.  If I'm being candid, I don't believe in The Program.  I think it's downright wrong.  It was wrong to unveil this to us, leaving us no option but to return from failed attempts at love, or to find love and be forced to say goodbye.  I've been to the underworld.  This might be worse!”

              “I have, too!” laughed Simon.  “Look, say no more.  'I'm leaving, on a jet plane,'” he added, crooning a joke.  “I'm not exactly doing too well over here and could use the company and a healthy debate on the subject.  Where are you?”

              “New Mexico!”

              “That's right.  How did you find me?”

              “Magic!”

              “Respect.”

              Simon began packing his camouflaged bags, determined to unearth a little sanity or old fashioned American distraction.  His tense mind uncoiled.  He knew it was only a matter of time before Israel forced him into exile.  As luck would serve, hope was reignited by an unexpected flame.  It was as if the universe had called him to a new mission.  Though Dez's bravado had intimidated the chosen ones, his demeanor on the phone seemed fair, well-intended and above all else, timely.  Hasty for solidarity, Simon never considered his motive.

              “Grayson, if you get this message, I'm heading to New Mexico to see the infamous Dez.”

              Click.

chapter 16

visions of the white bird (ath)

With zero trepidation, Simon boarded his flight.  The distance to New Mexico smothered his patience and murdered his enthusiasm.  Getting comfortable is rarely an option when wedged between two equally as uncompromising pieces of fleshy discontent, locked in a 110 degree angle.  The mere thought of another bag of off-brand peanuts or complimentary cup of lukewarm soda was enough to make him pant for a stronger drink.
Leaning back, he let the sweet taste of inebriation drown his unhinged mind.  In moments, he drifted into the void of a well-needed rest.

              Gazing into the eye of his dreaming mind, he saw the cold New York City streets standing apocalyptically still.  The only stir of life came from the lazy humming neon.  From a rusty yellow park bench, Simon watched debris and ash raining down upon a fallen world.  Occasionally, a patronizing song, caught between two crumbling buildings, tickled his frostbit ear, sending shivers up his bowed spine.  He was the lone witness, far from humanity's reach or care.

              Those who survived the endless war were hunkered down in fallout shelters in neighboring towns, far beneath the Earth's crust.  The New York City buildings were covered in red spray paint.  It was the abandoned graffiti of man's final cry.  The cryptic messages were intended as an obituary to anyone who might stumble from the wreckage and find the city's lost bloodlines. 

“You cannot make the world disappear,” read the towering Empire State Building.  “Our illusions are your reality,” read the marked Rockefeller Plaza.  They stood like tombstones.

              Simon knew the messages were meant for his gaze.  Adjusting his view, he saw the white bird, Ath, resting on the tablet in Statue of Liberty's left hand.  The date had been changed.

              “Freedom bathes in the ongoing fight for truth,” said Ath, setting the torch afire.  “Our hope rested in a single child, yet your sleight of hand has manipulated the world; a reality, forever tainted by the illusions you cast.  We will continue to light a way and rise from these tired ashes, but you will remain enslaved by your guilt, forevermore.

              “How can I be responsible for such destruction?  What have I done?” asked Simon.

              “It's what you didn't do,” said Ath. 

              Than, the gray bird, then appeared.  It flew into a towering skyscraper and burst into flames.  The building trembled, before quaking to its knees.  From the corner of his eye, Simon saw another gray bird approaching a second colossal twin building.  He reached toward the sky to thwart its advance.  It was too late, and far from Simon's reach.  It crashed, smoldered and asphyxiated his view with blankets of dense smoke.

              Encased in the steel ivory beast, Simon was startled by aggressive turbulence.  He awoke.  The shake of the plane stirred his palate and forced him to the tiny airplane restroom floor.  His sensitivity to vodka consumed him with waves of nausea, but his vision swallowed his heart.  He anguished.  His aversion to The Program waned. 

+++

              Juno's never wavered.

              Drifting toward the merriment of a peaceful night's rest, she ogled the mystery lurking just beyond her bedroom window.  She was infatuated with life and the sea of possibilities resting in the future's hands.  Startled, a white owl appeared and enticed her curious eyes into a staring competition.  It would vanish in the darkness and reappear with the blue flashes of a passing hailstorm.  Intensifying, her aged glass shattered, allowing the insistent bird to enter.  It perched upon her sturdy bedpost.  “Who will dance for me?” punned the White Bird.

              Juno sprung to attention, flung off her fluffy comforter and without pause, struck a pose.  As she danced about her room, her movements became effortless and exaggerated.  The bedroom floor slowly faded into a brilliant starlit sky.  To Juno, this was more of a fantasy than a nightmare.  The bird showed her how to use her soul to cross the universe and overcome the boundaries of science and reason.  Her art seemed limitless, in the presence of boundless faith.

              “Your heart bears the fruit of love's seed.  And such, your branches are uncontainable,” said the bird.

              She was then hung like a marionette.  The owl bound her limbs with freshly cut metal twine.

              “Will you dance for me?”

              She was unable to move.  Like a puppeteer, the bird then began forcing her into motion.  The more she fought its cruel movements, the deeper the jagged ties cut into her virgin skin.  Naturally, she panicked.  Like a fountain, blood dripped from her overwrought wrists and ankles, as her tender flesh tore.  Her tired muscles drained.  She then realized her dependency on control outweighed the faith that allowed her to express her heart and mind to the broken world.  She was still a creature, tempted by physicality, blessed by the comforts of privilege. 

              “Your joy comes from the limitlessness of free will.  It's the greatest of all gifts and relies on man’s convictions.  It cannot be interfered with by The Council.  If you never lose faith, you'll never stop dancing!”  

              The final sentence repeated in Juno's open mind.  The words empowered her to challenge obstacles and lobby against doubt. 

+++

Rand was also lead by the repetition of his calling and soothed by Ath's wisdom.  The white bird filled his soul with poetry and paved the doldrums of his riddled mind with philosophy.  These sentiments were his guidepost.  He struggled with a world and an identity he barely understood.  Drifting, he heard the familiar words of his childhood.

              “You are one thought in a collective mind,” chirped Ath.  Rand squirmed trying to awake from a horrific dream about World War II.  In his vision, the white bird reminded him of the reflective nature of consciousness and the danger of unwarranted hate.  “You observe creation, while it observes you.”

              It showed him a mechanical German army and the beautiful people of his old country being prepared for the slaughter.  He was then turned and sat before a vast mirror.  The reflecting people turned into a sea of doppelgangers, manufactured in his likeness.  He was instructed to massacre his identity and give himself over to death's sting.  Fear of losing one's self, he learned, was the catalyst of all subhuman intent and guided by fragile egos.  Though man could justify his actions with rank and divinity, he could never truly affect man's essence.

              “Do you see the limits of physicality?” asked Ath.  Rand watched billions of memories from millions of people set free from physical bondage and rejoining an omnisoul.  The white bird then showed him the pit of the underworld and told him to jump into it.  The fire didn't consume his soul, it recycled his energy and burned forevermore.  “Understanding comes from an eternal energy.  It cannot die or be lost in the fire.  It can't be murdered by man's hands.”

              “What we do to one, we've done to all?”

              “Love is love reflecting.  You are the future we long to see, a mere thought The Council chose to have.  You must not forget our interconnectedness or your responsibility to The Program, even if it seems impossible or inconsequential to today.  Love is the union of two or more minds acting as one conscious.”

              The bird began morphing from white into a beautiful rainbow of colors. 

              Rand awoke, panicked and confused by the colorful symbolism.  He shuffled to find a light, knocking a half-empty glass of water off of an old oak table.  Glass shattered onto his wooden floor and awoke his parents.  When they entered his room, Rand was gone, but the mess remained.  He had been sneaking into his old bedroom to catch winks and would occasionally tour the house for clues to his family’s on-goings.

              “Call Neco, National and Kapodistrian University in Athens,” read an old crumbled up piece of receipt tape resting on the barren kitchen table.  On the back of the paper was a scribbled phone number with a strange exchange.  The note's existence gave Rand hope that his mother and father hadn't completely divorced the idea of seeing him again.  He knew his old desert friends were probably trying to hop over the Berlin Wall of his father's creation; he was elated by his find, and lost in the night.  His parents were never the wiser.

              His father had no idea how important this message was to the world!