Children of the Program (28 page)

chapter 40

East

Joe's truck rattled the gravel.  Camouflaged by the shadows of tall trees, he pulled into his winding driveway and prepared to nest.  The whites of his eyes were bloodshot from the long trucking relays, but his tired heart was rejuvenated to find Crystal staring out of his paltry kitchen window.  He longed for the day he'd have a stable woman to greet him; a girl he could call his own and would long for
his
return.  Pushing the rickety screen door to the side, he teased the brass door knob.  He was met halfway with her turn.  He slunk across the threshold, too tired to smile.  An exuberant Petey battled for a theater view of his best friend.  As if knotted by the bonds of marriage, Crystal and Joe embraced.  Forgetting the brevity of their odd relationship, he briefly paused to digest her threatened reality.  He was reassured by the arsenal of fire power, lying dormant in his shed.  His instincts longed to protect his
woman, but therein lied his unconquerable obstacle.  They were friends. 

              Crystal was anxious to reveal her news, but knew it was best to not interfere with the rhythm of his cycle.  As if scripted, he would secure his tattered leather jacket on the coat rack, dismount from his compensating boots and sneer into the bathroom mirror, before addressing the household.  He breezed passed her and ruffled Petey's arching white feathers.  Petey's eyes widened and his beak remained half-cocked, enjoying a healthy dosage of love and affection.  Interrupting the calm, the stove let out an exasperated whistle.  It was Crystal's cue to clue him in.  Preparing a fresh pot of tea seemed like a soothing antidote for her folly and would serve its purpose in the coming hours.

              “We have to leave, tonight!” Crystal insisted, pouring Joe the first cup.

              “I'm not done with my shifts,” he said, sipping, attempting modest eye contact.

              “I made a mistake.  We may be hunted, if we stay,” she paused. 

              “We are hours from where I picked you up.  What kind of timetable are we talking?”

              “It depends.  We may have hours, days or weeks.  It's not worth our lives to find out.”

              “I...”

              Pulling a chair for him, she controlled the cadence of their conversation with her deliberately submissive gestures, before revealing her missteps.  Though his heavy eyes radiated like a nuclear meltdown, his commitment to her survival remained paramount and his lofty prayers for female companionship had been answered.  He wasn't prepared to leave her side, despite the audacity of her claims.  He owed God his gratitude.

              “We can bring, Petey?” she offered.

              “Like I said, it's best he stays,” insisted Joe.

              After a long hot shower and a home cooked meal, they loaded the diesel.  Restless, Crystal fidgeted through his cluttered glove box, unearthing maps, condoms and pornographic magazines.  It was of no consequence.  He knew the way.  The road was his veins and his body was the trampled ground beneath.  Slowly, he turned the key of hope.  Once the tractor engine sounded and the wheels began to spin, her obsessive fear diminished — eased by the trailing headlights disappearing from the rear view mirror.  Relieved, they laughed and played road games, hoping to forget about the 23 hour drive ahead of them.  Crystal wondered if the road was her safest bet.  There was an undeniable freedom in never settling.  It reminded her of the
Cadence of the Sun — without the abuse.

              “Why did you choose the road?” asked Crystal.

              “When you don't have a home, the road chooses you,” Joe offered, like a wise old cowboy.

              “Sometimes, I wonder if there's hope for people lost without a trace.  Maybe the vagabonds are happier staying off the radar, foraging from the land or simply crash landing their martyrdom into sky-scraping buildings.  How else do you get God's attention?” Crystal paused, reflecting on her self-destructive club days.  “We're like fallen angels.  We’re born to lose.”

              “People have all kinds of ways of dealing with their pain.  Some self-medicate, others isolate themselves and others, knowingly or not, try to understand it, by hurting a world they feel has rejected them.  You've embodied pain.  Maybe it's time for someone to deal with you,” Joe offered, pleading his case for love.

              She liked the sound of his candor.  No one had ever put her first.  At times, the resurrection of her lost innocence would remind her of her stillborn youth.  With his kind words, their joyful hearts harmoniously pulsed in tandem.  As if heaven was listening, stars showered before the windshield.  They danced in the iris of her eyes, as she tallied her wishes.  Though thick lines rested upon her perplexed brow, her heavy blue eyes were calmed by his selfless words.  His presence allowed her to rest and forget the mission.  Her conscious, honeycombed by guilt, would someday have to learn how to swallow her sins and build a new life in New York City.  After hours on the road, battling harsh elements, they stopped in Knoxville, Tennessee and sought refuge in an inconspicuous hotel.

              “Grayson, we'll be there tomorrow,” said Crystal, calling from parking lot payphone. 

              “I knew it wouldn't be long.  I will leave a key under my door mat.  You're welcome to come in and make yourself at home.  I apologize for my stark conditions.  If you knew the prices out here, you'd understand that a modest living in New York is as close to godliness as you'll ever know.  There
is
food!” Grayson said.

              “Seriously, I can't thank you enough!  Have you heard from Neco?” asked Crystal.

              “Yes!  They escaped,” said Grayson.

              “They?” asked Crystal.

              “Yes, he's with a girl named Michelle.  They're staying with a few of his friends in Los Angeles.  I think he's trying to figure out their next move and how they can help us.  Keep me looped, if anything changes.  I'm so happy to hear you're safe and near.  One more thing, don't let the Big Apple take a bite out of
you
!  It's bigger than you think,” offered Grayson.

              “I think you've dealt with enough crazy people!  New York should feel like home,” joked Joe, overhearing their conversation.

              After a long night's rest in queen beds, they awoke and forced down stale complimentary donuts with burned hotel coffee.  By instinct, they fiddled through the brochures and stalled.  The time had come.  It was their last day on the road and wreaked of a long-lived farewell.  Joe knew he couldn't live holed-up with Grayson, forever, without outstaying his welcome and losing his job.  His heart sank to the bottom of his aggravated stomach.  Battling carbohydrates, his mood dropped.  He welled up and forced back the tears of another heavenly tease.

              For the first time in years, he'd found someone to live for.  It was gut wrenching.  Without compromising his or her whereabouts, Joe knew he couldn't track or contact her and feared his sacrifice may leave him mopping up the devils from her past.  He prayed for a safe return to Petey and for God to someday send him another pregnant girl — a lass that would tell him the most unbelievable story ever told.  It was a gamble he was willing to take, over and over again.

+++

              Dez was poised to attack.  His night terrors persisted, while his ability to harness his own twisted reasoning began to dwindle.  Heightened brainwaves cooked off his sanity, as the lurking truth forced him to come to terms with the weight of Crystal's pregnancy.  No longer could he hide in the shadows of doubt and no more could he wrestle with the notion of her eventual return.

“Max, I'm packing my guns and glory and heading to Texas.  We've unearthed Crystal.  I'll forward you the directions.  It's mission critical that we find her.  I need you to mobilize a small team and meet me there.  Do not make a move until I arrive!” said Dez, with a hiss.

              “What's the plan?” asked Max
              “To kill the world's salvation!” Dez proclaimed, cryptically.

              “I'll be on my way,” said Max.

              It was a brief conversation, but the orders were given.

chapter 41

11:11

Her body, like mangled steel, struggled to pull itself from magnetic hospital sheets.  The candy stripers would sympathetically visit, but knew the strain of her best friend's disappearance was a solace they'd never articulate.  The drip of morphine soothed her torn body and teased her mind into a dreamlike submission.  Weaning herself from the soothing medication meant injecting the reality of Rand's trip to The Beyond.  Though she'd been given a backstage pass to his calling, she was suddenly forced to believe in miracles.

              Begrudging and bewildered, she unlocked the clasps of her travel luggage, and prepared to take a trip into the unknown.  The sound of her babies cries sobered her from the lingering effects of the drugs and reminded her of her new child's importance to the world.  Rand's parents did their best to encourage Isabella, but were torn between the birth of their grandchild and the loss of their own.  Something in the blistering air assured the Backers that Rand was never coming home. 

              As mysterious as his trip to Arizona seemed, Mr. Backer gave up on understanding the nature of his offspring.  Witnessing his son's dramatic personality shift only reinforced what he felt about Rand’s ramblings in the bar – his son had lost it.  Mr. Backer wasn't psychologically equipped to validate the idea of Nephilim-inspired children.  It mocked structure and sanity.  Struggling to cope, a rush of guilt befell Isabella's falling face, as she stared in the bathroom mirror.  Losing focus, she recalled the inexcusable nights of debauchery that lead to the conception of her first born.  She recalled performing filthy sex acts on warehouse floors, orgies with Rand and common strangers and sharing heroin needles with cold and exploitative drug dealers.  Returning to the same streets of chaos, where this new life had crawled, seemed equally as irresponsible as accepting a submissive role in her sexually abusive household.  She owed the heavens a queen's penance.

              “Sweetheart,” interrupted Mrs. Backer.  “Are you ready?”  She pulled a convenience wheelchair into the hospital bathroom doorway and awaited her to snap from her stubborn gaze.  A mother's instinct warned Mrs. Backer that it was best to leave her to tend her feelings. 

              “Yes.  Just a minute,” offered Isabella, attempting to avoid her lingering pause.

              “It's OK, my dear,” said Mrs. Backer.  Carrying the weight of the world was more than her fragile bones could handle.  Rand was her first and only child.  She always sensed there was something special about his arrival, but wouldn't dare articulate it, for fear Mr. Backer would have her committed.  She could almost hear Rand's story, buried deep within Isabella's heart and longed to know it.

              Turning to look at the clock, Isabella recalled the numerology of angels.  It was 11:11 am.  It begged her peace.  Comforted by superstition, she gathered her senses and descended into the wheelchair. 

Mrs. Backer softly encouraged her through the bustling lobby area.  Mr. Backer, adjusting an old war cap, led the charge.  Approaching the automatic doors, they noticed a small group of young adult women, dressed in black, holding picket signs that read, 'Stop the birther,' and 'Alien Fetus!'  Their angry rhetoric intensified Isabella's anxiety.  Mr. Backer bulldozed through the war zone.  Though Rand's threat to the Cadence of the Sun initiative was benign, the German sect never ceased observing the Backers and spreading their propaganda.  Dez would have them killed for missing a childbirth.  Scared by the protesters, Isabella wondered if the streets were her safe house.

              When they arrived at the Backer house and settled, Isabella entered Rand's room and picked up an old gold framed picture.  She pawed the outline of his face.  A longing tear crept from her tired eyes.  Though their child found a natural peace in the Backer’s home, the chill of unanswered questions intensified her fury.  Lying on Rand's bed, she prayed, before slipping under a spell of exhaustion. 

Dreaming, she watched golden beings being sucked into a vacuum of brilliant light.  Like the walls of a high school planetarium, they illuminated the otherwise non-existent universe around her.  Stepping back, she could see the living constellations; everything known and unknown was defined by the light. 

              “I am with you, always and forever.  I am in you, as you are in me,” proclaimed Rand.

              “Where are you?” asked Isabella.

              “Take this locket and know!” said Rand.

              Startled, she awoke to the cries of their baby.  She noticed what felt like two hands softly cupping her throat.  In a fog, she reached up to find a tiny sapphire choker necklace had been perfectly set around her neck.  She knew it was of Rand.  Before addressing her child, she wailed in joyful harmony.  Excited by his presence, she instinctively threw open the blinds and looked toward the clear skyline. 

              “I love you,” she motioned with her mouth. 

              Forming a heart, she connected the stars, before running to grab their child.  The baby instantly stopped crying.  Rand's spirit radiated from the welcoming heavens.  The fluorescent street lamps, blended with the blackest of nights, produced a radiant purple glow.  It mimicked the hue pouring from their baby's indigo eyes.

                “Love is love reflecting,” Isabella thought.  “Those were always Rand's favorite words.”

              As the weeks passed, it became frightfully clear that something was wrong with their child. Often by instinct, Isabella would awake and fear that Izzy had stopped breathing.  His cheeks were always warm and flush.  Cognizant of her arrival, the infant would gasp a telling cry.  She always feared the worst, but was often hushed by the consolation of Mrs. Backer's experience.

              “It'll pass,” Mrs. Backer insisted.  “It's just learning how to live on its own.” 

              One night, the clock struck 3:00 am – the witching hour.  Isabella gasped, shaken by a terrible nightmare.  Thumbing through the dark hallways of the Backer house, and running toward the calling crib, she paused, listening for her newborn's living tells.  Pulling Izzy from his slumber, she feverishly patted him on his soft back.  She couldn't wake him, nor hear the tiny air escaping his perpetually stuffed nose.  She panicked. 

              “Come on, come on!” Isabella quietly cried.  Her baby's body felt cold and clammy, but she was convinced her mind was playing a virgin mother's tricks upon her.  She carefully laid him on the bed and grabbed a warm rag.  When she returned, she bathed his skin and tried to open his clinched eyes, but they wouldn't budge.  Rain began streaming down her cheeks, as she lifted the child's heart to her ear.  It wasn't beating. 

The lights flickered, reminding her of Izzy's cosmic relevance.  Grabbing her sapphire stone necklace, she feverishly prayed to his absentee father.  The reality of the situation broke her respectful silence.  With a thunderous scream, she awoke the Backer's.  She could feel a massively dark energy clouding the cooling room. 

              Mrs. Backer and Mr. Backer cautiously entered the nursery.  Adjusting their robes and spectacles, they tried to make sense of their uncomfortable surroundings. “What is it, what is it?” screamed Mrs. Backer

              Pushing her aside, Isabella grabbed the phone and dialed an emergency unit.  Hearing the click of an operator's connection, she spoke without question.  “My child has stopped breathing.  Please send someone, immediately.”

              It was no use.  Izzy was gone, long before they arrived.