The Lover's Parable Through A Seven World Journey (29 page)

It was difficult being out in the streets. Thronged at every corner by the women of the city, Sofia was much more comfortable in the fields, where there were fewer citizens, both living and dead. Although the work was laborious, and she was still the focus of attention wherever she went, Sofia found it much easier to acclimate to the eyes that were constantly upon her, rather than the hands that touched her.

The Security vehicles rolled along the dirt roads on the outskirts of the flatlands, kicking up their billowing tails of thick, brown dust as they made their circuits around the perimeter of the city and through the farmlands. For the most part, the agents seemed to know which women were untouchable and which ones were not, although Maryanne said the rule only applied to certain times of the year. According to her command, Sofia gave special attention to be sure to never make eye contact with any of
them.

On a few occasions they were assigned to work the fields at the edge of the city, towards the rising Savior. The base that she and John had made their initial landing was still sitting lonely on the distant hilltop. Over its high wall, the tip of their air transporter was barely visible. But after a few days it was gone.

During the cool of the night, hidden within the thin, shanty walls of Maryanne’s abode, Sofia made every attempt to busy her mind, to keep it from wandering too deeply. She began learning the art of weaving, working with her hands in the dim flickering of the lamplight. The nighttime was the only time when no one else but Maryanne was present. Sofia missed John with a passion. Reminiscing of him and their adventures helped ease the pain of his absence. As the cool night’s breeze would often blow aside the tattered, cloth covering of the window, she would occasionally catch glimpses of the wishing stars…
oh, how she hated
them
.

Due to the fact that her companion was not afforded the people skills that Sofia had obtained while living in Labor, the woman remained quiet and reserved during the beginning stages of their relationship. Shying away from discussing very many details about her own life, her likes and dislikes or anything else for that matter, Maryanne was a good listener, a characteristic of a friend that Sofia subconsciously needed to help her through the daily stresses of being separated from her love. But after a few days of accompaniment with Sofia, Maryanne seemed to feel a little more comfortable in her presence, speaking more openly, yet in a rather secretive manner.

One cool night, while sleeping as soundly as she possibly could under the circumstances, Sofia awoke to the soft, voiced whispers of her new companion.

“Sofia, I need to tell you something,” she said.

Sofia knew immediately by Maryanne’s tone of urgency that she had some news of great importance to tell her. Sitting up at the edge of the cot, she rubbed the blurriness from her eyes.

“What’s the matter, Maryanne?” she whispered.

Maryanne was hesitant at first, nervous and stuttering. Speaking to Sofia about the secretive details of John’s whereabouts, it was not long before she settled down, expressing her thoughts with more clarity. She had a contact somewhere within the Security that informed her that John was in lockdown in the military training center. Although she was not privy to any of the finer specifics of his purpose in being there, Maryanne was certain that he was being trained into something that would undoubtedly be incredibly taxing upon his spiritual well-being. In fact, according to her source, John was on schedule to be transferred to the inner facility of the training center within the week. That is the place where, she said, “
men become
monsters
”.

Sofia’s emotions were a mix of joy and sorrow. She was thankful to know that her love was still alive, but her heart was still downtrodden by the painful words regarding his horrible situation. She could not bear the fact that she possessed the knowledge that somewhere, beyond the flatlands and over the horizon, John was suffering under the hands of the Security. Placing the deadly potentials and dangers awaiting him into the inner recesses of her mind, Sofia attempted to forget all of John’s difficulties, instead concentrating on the fact that they could one day be reunited. She knew John more intimately than any other person. He was strong in spirit, rugged in mind. And he would fight every effort of his captors to change him for the worse.

Sofia struggled to fall asleep after the news that Maryanne had brought her. Her thoughts were a tangled mess of hardship and happiness. She finally drifted off into a light rest a short time before the Savior was to make his presence known. Under Maryanne’s wishes, she was left alone for the rest of the morning, allowing her to obtain the rest that her body so desperately needed.

It had been a heavy day of gathering and transferring of produce from the great fields of the flatlands. After returning to Maryanne’s home, Sofia, even after a half-day’s labor, was far too exhausted to work anymore with her hands. After sponge bathing her arms and legs behind the veil in the corner of the room, she climbed onto her cot and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

The soft whispers entering through the window on the opposing wall from where Sofia lay were like sheets of water on a stormy day, unsettling and too random to allow for a mind’s rest. As her eyes opened, she found herself staring at the ceiling, unsure at first of what it was that had caused her to suddenly awaken from such a dreamy state. Sitting up in bed, Sofia was about to call out to Maryanne when she realized that her companion’s bed was empty. She was nowhere to be seen in the room.

The whispers from the window began to flow once again. As the initial fear of the unknown began to wane, Sofia’s curiosity was piqued. Throwing aside the thin, course sheet from off of her legs, she began to quietly make her way across the room.

At the midway point to the rag-covered opening in the wall, the creaking of the wood flooring beneath her feet became an immediate concern. Its sound would certainly give away the fact that she was awake. Choosing the safer route, her adventurous side stifled long ago by her terrible experiences, Sofia returned back to her cot, sitting down and waiting in the darkness for the strangers to
leave.

The time was moving by at a sluggish pace. It seemed as if the long exchange of words would continue throughout the rest of the night. Just as Sofia was about to give-up the wait, the fading sounds of the strangers’ footsteps indicated that they were departing from each other. Hearing someone enter into the room downstairs, she quickly slipped back into the cot, drawing up the covers.

A vehicle from the streets outside, indicated in all likelihood by the familiar sound of its rumbling engine, a Security transporter, drove off into the distance just before Maryanne entered through the door. Quietly making her way across the room, she climbed into her bed without saying a word.

Considering that Maryanne hardly ever spoke with anyone in the community, as far as Sofia had seen, she assumed that the person driving off must have been the “contact” that Maryanne was getting her information from. As her companion seemed to fall fast asleep, Sofia did not attempt to press her on the subject of her encounter. It was, after all, none of her business.

It had been over a week since John had been able to procure any
real
sleep. Having been transferred to another cell somewhere on the training grounds several nights ago, there were rare occasions where he was able to nod off momentarily before being interrupted by the harsh words of the military personnel. Although his hearing seemed to be in tune to the sensual world, his vision seemed out of synch. Unusually appearing apparitions were becoming the norm. The walls were chronically in a slow state of movement, appearing to breathe, inhaling and exhaling around him. Every effort to close his eyes to regain his inner balance was met with a hurtful end from one of the soldiers waiting outside. No longer willing or able to fight, John gave into the demands of each man that entered the room, even apologizing to them whenever they pushed him to the ground or threatened him with harm.

He had not seen a Security agent for quite some time. It appeared as if the military had taken full control of his person. He attempted in vain to scrawl into the forearm of his skin the days that had passed since he had last seen Sofia, but without any access to the Savior, he lacked the ability to discern whether it was day or night. Differentiating between minutes and hours had become nearly impossible.

The door to his cell opened and two soldiers stepped in.

“Come with us,” one of them demanded.

Lifting himself up, John held his hands out, giving the men the opportunity to place the cuffs on his wrists without any resistance.

“That won’t be necessary,” one of the soldiers replied.

As they proceeded through the door, John followed close behind. Entering into the hall, he was now standing in a narrow tunnel with barely enough room between the walls for the two soldiers to walk side-by-side. Leading him away from his prison cell, the two men seemed unconcerned about escorting an unshackled prisoner. Other than the batons that they held in their hands, they appeared to be unarmed.

The light at the end of the tunnel filtering between the edges of the silhouettes of the two men was bright and powerful. John was unable to distinguish the nature of it, whether Savior or artificial. But, he thought, it made little difference what the source of it was, as his destiny was being effectuated without any consideration of his own desires.

As they neared the exit point, John recognized the Savior as the source of the intensity. The brightness was growing exponentially with each step, along with the sudden rising temperature.

Greeted with the blindingly reflective sand of the desert valleys as they departed from the tunnel, the three men descended the winding, concrete stairway that led to the bustling training grounds below.

Gunfire was exploding rampantly throughout the region in never ending volleys, intermittently overshadowed by the booming sounds of explosive ordinance. The training center was much larger than it had first appeared to John from the windows of the control room. Fenced around its perimeter with a barbed wire structure, its numerous stations interconnected through a maze-like network of trenches that were filled with soldiers performing various drills.

As they walked off the last step and entered into the crowds of uniformed men and women that marched along in strict fashion, John noticed that he was the only person in a black uniform, the only soldier unattached to a larger unit. His escorts seldom checked his presence. He figured that they knew he had nowhere to
run.

Through the ceilingless corridors they walked, continuing past several firing ranges and hand-to-hand combat sessions. Platoons of soldiers passed them by, singing cadence and moving through the masses as a single, organic unit. Still the only soldier dressed in his peculiar fatigues, John was beginning to wonder all the more as to what the purpose of his particular training would be.

Rounding a sharp corner, they walked under an overhead sign sporting a symbol of a broomstick with its bound sweeping-fibers dripping with blood. The words etched across the bottom read:
Under the
Rug
.

The trench terminated at a heavily guarded gate at which the three men came to a halt. One of his escorts walked over to the scanner on the wall. Peering into it, the screeching buzz of the locks released.

Flakes of rust borne metal fell from its bars as the gate began to swing open. Two soldiers, dressed in the similar black uniform as John, only striped like a tiger with streaks of red, stepped through the threshold.

“We’ll take him from here, fellas.” one of them said.

As his former escorts turned to leave, John stood in silence before his two newly assigned captors. Standing side by side, John caught a glimpse of their names embroidered above the left breast pockets of their shirts. The one standing to his left was Michaels. The one to his right was Crawford.

Crawford was a middle-aged soldier with a short military cut and narrow shoulders. His eyes were heavily bagged and sinister-looking under the natural downturn of his thick brows. His nose was abnormally hooked, and seemed a perfect fit for his hunched back. He lacked the stiffness more commonly characteristic of a trained individual. His partner, Michaels, on the other hand, was nearly the same build. Similar in demeanor, as if the two men were borne from the same mold, but Michaels was probably half the age of his superior.

“You’re just in time for the fun,” Michaels said with a laugh.

Taking John by the arm, he jerked him forward, leading him through the gateway.

“We’ve got a lot of toys for you to play with today,” Crawford replied.

As they walked through the threshold and into the first courtyard, the gate began to close behind them. Crawford spun John around by the shoulders making him watch as the only door to the outside world closed him in.

After initiating its automated locks, he whispered into John’s ear, “You won’t be seeing the outside of that gate for a long, long time.”

Forced to turn around once again, John was pointed directly at a stairwell that descended underground at the other end of the quadrangle. It looked to be their objective for the moment. With a shove at his back, the soldiers hurried him ahead, pressing him along the concrete path that terminated at its entrance. Seemingly under the pressure of a time constraint of which John knew nothing about, they urged him with threats of harm to keep up with them, pulling him along by the sleeves of his shirt, kicking at his feet and tripping him to the ground, dragging him by the scruff of his collar.

Into the stairwell they entered, descending into the bunker below, where the men began to pick up the pace. Flipping on the electronic lanterns that they had strapped to their belts, the walls around them became a living mural of shadows that created a disorienting effect upon the senses.

Down a tunnel and into a dark room they went, with John struggling to maintain his balance. The laughter and howling of the two men in their jubilatory glee created a mood of pure dread. Lit up only at the end in which they had suddenly come to a standstill, the room was cold and dry. His tormentors walked around him, their lights shining in his face caused a deep burning to his eyes. As they gave him a reprieve from the brightness, John could see that there was a single, metal bench bolted to the floor in front of him. Empty and sterile, it was the only piece of furniture in the room as far as he could tell.

As Crawford disappeared into the darkness, John could hear him performing an action that sounded like the flipping of switches. The sudden flickering of several lights overhead gave a brief, but indiscernible view of the room.

The lights stabilized, growing brighter by the moment, until his surroundings were glowing white. John’s newly found visibility allowed him to see that he was standing at the head of an indoor shooting range. The smell of fresh paint that emanated from its shimmering, reflective walls gave the appearance of a recent
construction.

The far end of the room was, according to the distance markers set upon the floor, three hundred meters away. John could make out a single, steel door with a central locking mechanism situated on its perpendicular wall. Between him and the three hundred meter sign, standing erect in fifty-meter intervals, were several rectangular shooting targets with human silhouettes imprinted upon their faces.

Returning back with a rifle in hand, Crawford shouldered the weapon, taking careful aim at John’s head as he approached him. Lifting his hands in the air, John coward back, causing the two men to burst into laughter.

“This is
your
rifle, boy,” Crawford said. “Don’t be afraid of it.”

A sudden blow to the gut from Michaels caused John to double over, falling to his knees. Removing a leather strap out of the cargo pocket of his pant leg, along with a metallic roll, Crawford leaned over his victim.

“Don’t move,” he said with a laugh. “This isn’t going to hurt me at all.”

Wrapping the strap around John’s neck and fixing its latch, securing it with a miniature padlock, Crawford proceeded to pull out a knife, ripping through the back of John’s shirt and exposing his spine. Unraveling the metallic strip and tearing away the paper lining that was held to one of its sides, he then placed it on John’s back, pressing and molding it into the contours of each vertebra. The two wires dangling from the neck collar were connected to the strip and tucked away at the collar’s
base.

After completing the task, the men stepped away, allowing John the time he needed to catch his breath and stand back upon his feet.