Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy) (5 page)

“True.”

“It’s hard to accept that a senator’s life is worth more than an ordinary American citizen’s. How can that be right? Millions died, while the political people and the celebrities got a heads-up and lived.”

“
We
lived,” Tom reminded her.

Serena was quiet for a few seconds. “But we were lucky -- blessed. Why couldn’t the government warn people? They would have had hard intelligence from satellites or something. Were they afraid of mass panic and then no one could get out?”

 “Maybe. I saw a new map at the library. It was sad seeing the United States smaller, and divided.  California, Virginia, Pennsylvania and part of New York were grayed out. Oregon, New Jersey and part of Michigan were filled in with a dot pattern for ‘uninhabitable’.”

“And now we are split in two, with two presidents. Nothing feels real anymore.”

The break was over and Paul had returned to the pulpit. He took a sip of bottled water and revved himself up into his closing rant.

People, listen. It’s coming fast. They are putting chips in all new babies born on or after January 1. In three weeks. And by April 1, every citizen is required to have the chip. They are already putting the chips in prisoners and anyone who comes in to renew a driver’s license.

Cameras they have now can scan license plates and alert the police if there’s anything going on with your vehicle – unpaid parking tickets, crime committed, or stolen vehicle. We’ve had this awhile. But now they’ll be using it to catch those who don’t have the chip
.

We at OGG, off-grid-ghost, we are officially urging people to get the chips.

Paul waited for his words to register with the crowd. He was not disappointed by their reaction of gasps, followed by shocked silence.

Seriously, we do. It’s the only way to protect ourselves. We get the chip, and then come in to OGG. We’ll set you up with a code that we’ll add to the chip that blocks the data. It is like a virus blocker, like a firewall for when you’re on the Internet and someone’s trying to steal your identity. When anyone scans the chip, it will give them limited data: whatever the off-grid programmers put in. It won’t track your real transactions. But it will protect you. It will satisfy the government that you have the chip.

And we control the number, so that no one here ends up with 666 embedded under their skin.

Paul laughed, and the audience responded in kind. Tom and Serena exchanged looks of horror, not mirth.

Paul continued.

I’m not sure that the Beast is a computer, or that the numbers are about the Identity Chip. But do we want to take a chance? Of course we don’t! The Identity Chip is required to get a driver’s license, and banks will use it for all transactions. Stores will use it for all transactions. What will we do for money? How will we get around? If you don’t have the chip, you can be arrested.

Let us help you. What we are offering you is software to add to the chip, our mark. The software is called “Angels Mark”, and we strongly suggest you get the chip, come directly to OGG, and get Angels Mark installed. Do this by April 1. It gives you three months. We want all of our members protected by then. And from that point onward, only those with the Angels Mark will be able to scan to get into the OGG campus. We are doing this for all of us. Outsiders will find us eventually, but we don’t want to make it easy for them to get in. So get the chip. Then come to us. We’ll help you hide. We’ll protect you.

Paul ended his final speech with a confident nod to the crowd. They responded with strong applause and a few scattered
Amens. Everyone quickly dispersed, with many making a beeline toward Paul and his staff. Tom and Serena dodged the beaten path and bolted for the nearest exit.

Serena barely waited until the van door was shut behind her before saying, “They won’t know we don’t have the Angels Mark unless we try to get on the off-grid campus. If we use these three months to stock up on food and supplies, we could stay here for a lot longer than three months without anyone knowing we don’t have it.”

“We stock up. After April 1, we stop going to the off-grid campus.”

“How long can we live without going to the store? We won’t be able to go shopping anywhere.”

“We can get chickens.”

“We’d need a chicken coop.”

“I can build one.”

“We can grow our own food. This is going to be an adventure.”

“It will be fun, besides, what choice do we have?”

5

Paul
Tracy left the seminar feeling as if he’d just sold his last vacuum cleaner of the day, in other words: victorious and vindicated. Funny how those old feelings resurfaced after so many years. It seemed like another lifetime ago that Paul had been a vacuum cleaner salesman, a job for which he had a natural gift. He outsold everyone, despite never getting a good client list. Most of his sales went to people who couldn’t afford them, and virtually all of his sales went to people who had no intention of buying a vacuum cleaner that day, not until Paul showed up on their door step.

He was initially motivated to hard-sell to impress his boss, to prove that he was not too young to hold down a job, but Paul was quickly bitten by the bug; he craved the gambler’s high that selling gave him. The rush, lasting for a few glorious moments, sometimes hours, was what drove him toward making the next sale. He became a master at conning homeowners and renters alike with his slick tricks to demonstrate how dirty their floors were from using their current sweeper, and then dazzling them with how clean the new sweeper got their floors.

Paul polished off his act until he had a fail-proof, show-stopping, demonstration and a one-in-three sales track record. Not bad for a kid fresh out of high school. Eventually, the job he viewed as a perfectly-legal con game was effortless. Paul was Salesman of the Month every month without fail, for the entire four years he worked for Morris Handley.

Morris was a weasel of a man. He even looked like a weasel: He had a slight build that couldn’t accommodate his extra pounds, giving him a small-animal-with-a-
pouchy-belly physique. Add his oval head with wide-set eyes and pointy ears, and it wasn’t hard to imagine him as anthropomorphic vermin.

Paul, who enjoyed his own reflection in the mirror, noticed all of Morris’ shortcomings, especially the receding hairline that was poorly, and absurdly, masked by a cosmetic spray that looked suspiciously like black spray paint. And if the physical appearance wasn’t eye candy enough, Morris gave something special to the ears as well. He had a voice that defied explanation. It was both nasal and a low baritone; it was both gritty and strong. The rise in pitch went up two octaves when he was yelling at his salesmen, but would fall sharply and unexpectedly into the throaty bear growl of a mobster.

Saving the best attribute for last, Morris had an overbearing wife who called the office incessantly with her constant carping. When Morris was especially beleaguered by the steady barrage of nagging and barbs from his wife, he would vent his pent-up frustrations at Paul and the other young salesmen. All of the young men, and one unfortunate young lady who was perpetually the victim of sexual harassment by pretty much everyone (she only lasted two months at Handley Sweep & Repair), were reduced to putty when Morris bellowed, all but Paul.

Paul always took the abuse cheerfully and then set out to out-sell everyone else. Before long, he was the apple of Morris’ eye. Day after day, Paul set out with his vacuum kit until that fateful day that he landed at the front door of Miss Donna. Miss Donna was known in the area, and avoided. But Paul had never heard of her, or her conquests, of which there had been many.

Miss Donna, home all day without a job, was leery of a stranger showing up unannounced, but after looking Paul over, she ushered him inside. She was lonely with the kids all grown up all off to their fancy schools. Why they needed college, she’d never understand. Her kids would be in debt for the rest of the lives and for what? Did they think they were too good for a real job? Didn’t her daughter get it by now, that husbands leave or die? Why bother with more school when it won’t pay the rent? Don’t get her started on her son, he was a closed subject. And if the subject was opened, well, Donna had a lot to say.

Then along came Paul, who was the same age as Miss Donna’s own son. Paul was good looking, better looking than her son. Paul looked like he played sports and his skin was tan from sun – not like her son, who was pasty white and couldn’t catch a ball. Her son would rather stay inside and read a book all summer than join the team. Paul had a real job. She admired Paul’s full head of hair. He looked so young and virile. Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, Miss Donna had reached out to touch Paul’s hair.

Paul flinched, but he didn’t pull away. He only stood there, blinking his eyes in surprise. He let his box of supplies slip to the floor, making a soft thump on the carpet. Miss Donna’s cool blue eyes sized him up in an instant and she lunged at him, clutching both sides of his face with her dry thin hands and long stained fingernails. She pressed her lips onto his, so hard that Paul felt pain. She wriggled her tiny body like a hairless cat while working with her lips to open Paul’s unresponsive mouth.

Paul was slow to react, but his brain finally spoke to his hands. He pushed Miss Donna away with more force than he intended. She looked at him with wide eyes and an open mouth: horror. Then her eyes and mouth relaxed into a mask of tragedy: humiliation. Last, her eyes narrowed into catlike slits and fixed on him with a vengeance: hatred. Paul knew those three H’s well: horror, humiliation, and hatred. He’d seen them before, and he knew he was in trouble.

By the time he reached Handley Sweep & Repair, he had rehearsed his story dozens of times. It would be her word against his, and he guessed, correctly, that she had picked up the phone the moment he walked out the door. She would make a complaint about Paul before he could make a complaint about her, of that he was certain. The question was, who did she call? Did she ring Morris, or had she gone straight to the police?

Much to Paul’s relief, the complaint had been made to Morris only, no police. But Morris was irate. All of the repressed anger he felt day after day in his shabby little life with his
carpy wife boiled over. He let loose like a short fat bull throwing a tantrum. Paul was reminded of a cartoon character, the Disney-fied Danny DeVito in Hercules. He almost started laughing, almost.

“What did you think you were
doing!”

“Sir, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know you didn’t!”

“I don’t know what she told you, but I didn’t do anything.”

“I should fire you right now.”

“But you won’t.” Paul said calmly.
Cool as a cucumber
, he coached himself. He knew he was the best that Morris had, and Morris wouldn’t let him go based on one complaint from Miss Donna. He tried to push the image of the animated Danny DeVito character out of his head.

“You are my best salesman, but don’t think I won’t fire you if you don’t make this right.”

“I’ll be on guard in the future.”

“What? No you won’t. You’ll go right back to Donna’s and make sure she’s a satisfied customer.”

Paul blinked hard, finally catching on to what Morris was saying. “What do you mean, sir? She didn’t order anything.”

“You know what I mean. Donna only complains when she doesn’t get what she wants. You’re young, you’re her type. Don’t think I don’t know what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Yeah.
Make sure that something does.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Morris came out from behind his metal desk, a desk littered with children’s school pictures, office supplies and paperwork that Morris should have completed weeks ago. A pizza box with one piece left in it topped the stack. His body brushed the pile, causing the tower to slide off the desk. Morris seemed not to notice.

He walked toward Paul until he was standing only a few inches from his face. Morris, several inches shorter than Paul, had somehow made himself tall enough to look him eye to eye. He reached out and gripped Paul’s shoulders with his hairy stubby fingers.

“Look kid, it’s a tough world. I’m doing you a favor. You have something that women want.” His halitosis expelled over Paul’s face like an exterminator’s fogger. He growled, “A pretty boy like you. Use it.”

Paul left Handley Sweep & Repair and went directly home, to the empty house that had once
been occupied a happy family. Well, to be fair, the family was never all that happy, but at least they were together, all of them alive. Imperfect parents were nearly always better than dead parents. They’d been gone a long time now and Paul had trouble remembering what it was like to have had parents; his brother Clyde had been his legal guardian since Paul was thirteen years old.

The empty house seemed to echo his every step, mocking him. Paul was aching for his parents even though he knew deep down that he probably wouldn’t have shared any of this Miss Donna
situation with them. It was a relief when a clatter from the kitchen caught Paul’s ears: Clyde was home.

“Why are you home?” Paul asked.

Clyde didn’t pause in his dish-washing routine. “I could ask the same of you, little brother.”

“I’m in trouble, Clyde.”

“Oh?” Clyde dried his hands on the faded green-checked dish towel hanging from the front pocket of his jeans. He turned away from the sink.

“This nasty old bat came on to me and I got out of there. Morris wants me to go back to her and do what she wants.”

“Mole-man? He’s pulling your leg.”

“No, he’s serious. And it’s a gopher. He looks like a gopher.”

“Mole, gopher – a rodent is a rodent. How do you know he’s not messing with your head?”

“He wants the sale. He’s not joking.”

“You’re telling me that the scumbag would pimp out my little brother to sell a vacuum cleaner?”

“If you don’t believe me, listen to this.” Paul fished his cell phone out of his pocket.

“You recorded him?”

“Audio. There’s no video, I kept it in my pocket.”

“I’m impressed.”

Clyde listened to Morris’ tirade, and could hear for himself the unmistakable meaning of what Morris told Paul to do. Clyde felt the blood rushing to his head, his hands clenched into fists. He willed his body to relax. He tensed his face and then released the tension. He took a couple deep breaths. When he had stabled himself he said, “I’ll take care of it. You go on to the rest of your route. Say nothing about Donna.”

“How did you know it was her?”

Clyde held up the clipboard Paul had set on the kitchen table. “You checked off all the names before hers. Besides, she has a reputation.
Figured she was the one.”

“You got it right. It’s her.” Paul shuddered at the memory of her moist hot lips on his mouth.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ve got your back. You check off her name. Mark it as ‘not home’. Go to the next person on your list. Business as usual. Say nothing to Morris, or anyone. Got it?”

Paul opened his mouth to ask what Clyde was going to do, but something in his brother’s face stopped him cold. Paul left the kitchen, went upstairs to his room, and spent the rest of his Friday afternoon listening to music. By Sunday, Paul had two nights of hard partying with his friends behind him and had almost forgotten about Miss Donna.

The following Monday morning, when Paul arrived early, without a trace of a hangover, Morris pulled Paul into his office for a chat. “Paulie, I got something to tell you.”

What was that expression on Morris’ face?
Compassion? Pity? Were rodents capable of emotion? Paul waited, said nothing.

“It’s about Donna. Drop her from your list. She’s dead. Her son found her body on Saturday. It was a freak accident. Somehow she fell into her bathtub full of water – her clothes still on and everything. Her blow dryer was plugged in nearby, it was in the tub – switch was on. They think she might have grabbed at the cord as she was falling, or was stupid enough to dry her hair while in the tub. I don’t know if she died from hitting her head on the tub, from zapping herself, or from drowning.
Whatever. She’s dead. Take her off your roster.”

Paul blinked. He said nothing. His mind fleetingly went to Clyde. Could Clyde have had something to do with Donna’s death? No, of course not! “Are the police investigating?”

Morris snorted. “I doubt it. What’s one less skank in this town?”

Paul continued selling vacuum cleaners for another six long months, until he had enough money in his bank account to make a down payment on a small business loan. After that, Paul would never have to sell another vacuum. Because, according to Clyde, there was a little something that Morris was completely clueless about: who owned the building, the hole-in-the-wall hovel in a God-forsaken town, where Handley Sweep & Repair had been in business for three generations. Clyde knew, and he filled Paul’s head with a plan to get out from under Morris Handley with his middle finger held high.

The history on the Handley building involved the late Mr. Ferro, a dear friend of Morris’ grandfather, who helped the Handley family in the early days when Mr. Handley was supporting an ill wife and a young family with eleven children. Ferro set a lower-than-market-price rental agreement, something Mr. Handley could afford to pay – and yet maintain his pride in supporting his family.

In over forty years, Ferro had never raised the rent, even when Handley Sweep & Repair was passed down through two generations. When Ferro’s daughter Martha inherited the Handley Sweep & Repair building from her father, she had no interest in the building and made no changes to the original rental agreement that her father had with Morris. She had never visited the building, probably never read the rental agreement, and Clyde suspected that she would rather get rid of it than continue the relationship with the
Handleys; who, two generations removed from the original Ferro-Handley friendship, were strangers to each other, and not in the same league as Martha and her circle.