Authors: Geoffrey Neil
Pop’s phone rang. He picked up the handset and said, “Yes... Good timing, I’m finishing with Mark.” He went to the door and opened it. “Mark, how would you like to see some rough justice?”
Mark stood from his chair, but didn’t answer. Pop motioned for Mark to join him in the hallway. A moment later, Raphael rounded the corner pushing another person, strapped from neck to ankles on a hand truck.
Mark immediately recognized Neva’s slender frame and platinum blond hair, disheveled and sticking to her face. She wore a business suit that was soiled the length of one side. Mark heard her wheezing. Raphael moved the tangled hair from her face revealing mascara that streaked over her cheeks to the top of a tight ball gag.
Pop clucked his tongue as he walked to Neva. “I cannot describe how naughty you have been,” he said to her.
Neva shook her head violently and cried out under the gag.
“Oh yes, we’ve watched you while we’ve watched Mr. Denny. You’re special,” Pop continued. “Not only have you attempted to betray our leader,” he turned and winked at Mark. Neva’s eyes widened when she recognized Mark. It couldn’t be! Her lie to the FBI about him was…true?
Mark could only stare back at her, expressionless. She was now a far cry from the powerful executive she portrayed herself to be at the shelter.
Pop leaned closer to Neva’s face and lowered his voice. “Not only have you betrayed our leader, but we’ve learned from him that you regularly fleece the impoverished. That is unforgiveable.”
Neva shook her head again and tried to scream, but produced little sound. Teddy appeared from around the corner. Several long leather straps with hooks on them draped over each of his shoulders.
“Enough talk,” Pop said. “Dispose of her. It’s time to feed the Gullet.” He pointed back to where Teddy had come from. Raphael tilted Neva back on the hand truck. She tried to scream again and jerked her head against the truck as they wheeled her away and out of sight.
“Wait, please don’t kill—”
“Shhhh,” Pop said as he held up a finger to Mark.
Mark knew there was no stopping what was about to occur. Pop placed his hand on Mark’s shoulder and said, “She has given her last performance and won’t steal from our brothers and sisters again. I want you to go to the café and have some dinner. Then go to your suite and relax. Tomorrow morning we begin your inside-tour of our justifiable means. I think you are ready to peek under our hood.”
Mark didn’t want go to the diner so he went to his suite instead. There, he found fresh bagels, crackers, and cookies on the counter, and the refrigerator was stocked with cheese sandwiches, fruit plates, and new bottles of peach iced tea.
He took some of the food to a table and picked at it. He was once again sick to his stomach after viewing another new example of the Trail Bladers’ diabolical ruthlessness. He hadn’t stepped in and pled for Neva’s life as emphatically as he normally would have. Some of her behaviors were inappropriate, but it didn’t grant the Trail Bladers the right to an unlawful, vigilante execution. This made him worry that Pop’s argument for means-justification had begun to make sense—to a degree. Was it possible that he was bending to Pop’s point of view? Was each Trail Blader’s implicit obedience the result of repeatedly hearing Pop’s logic reduced to the absurd?
More disturbing to Mark was his deepening cooperation with the Trail Blader mission. Now he had stood by as Neva was led to execution. His rationale for temporarily cooperating with Pop was that playing along for a short time would allow him to devise a more certain and complete end to their suffering. The similarity of his rationale with Pop’s means-justification made him feel sick. Yet he felt he had no choice; Pop would immediately kill him and the remaining fodder if Mark attempted a betrayal. Of that, he was certain.
Mark paced between the kitchen and den. He forced himself to sit on the sofa. He had no doubt that his every move was being recorded, if not viewed live somewhere else in the Nest, and he didn’t want to appear uneasy or scheming.
He turned on the television and flipped through several channels before he stopped on an image that tightened his throat and clamped his stomach—a small photo of his face in the top left corner of the screen. Underneath, video footage showed the rooftop of the Pacific Grove building. He saw himself, standing beside the brick turret on the edge of the building, the open storage locker beside him. His back was to the camera. An electronic oval drawn on the screen highlighted a long canvas bag in the storage locker below the pair of binoculars. The video zoomed to lettering on the back that read, “Tango-51 Tactical Operations.”
The reporter said, “The sniper rifle has been turned over to the FBI. If you have any information about the person in the photo, please call the city’s emergency hotline.”
Mark tried to keep his emotions in check. He turned off the lights, lay down on the bed, and swung as hard as he could at the pillow. He knew whose fingerprints the FBI would find on the rifle.
Chapter Seventeen
MARK HEARD A knock on his suite’s door early the next morning. When he opened it, Pop stood, carrying a tray of food with plate covers and a newspaper on the side. Pop said, “The diner staff said you were MIA for dinner last night, so you must be ready for a hearty breakfast. Eat up—we’ve got a big day.” He edged past Mark and took the tray to the kitchen counter.
“Thanks, but I’m not very hungry…”
“Now, you wouldn’t want us to waste this food, would you?” Pop asked. “Have a bite or two. You’ll need your strength. You’re getting the full tour.”
Mark sighed and took a seat at the table while Pop removed the plate covers and portioned some hashed browns, eggs, and fruit onto a plate for Mark.
“Are you excited?” Pop asked.
“Of course,” Mark said, trying to sound committed.
He might be on the verge of getting the information he could use to overthrow Pop, yet now anxiety swept over him and he felt nauseated. He picked at the potatoes and made a point to chew as though he had more in his mouth than he really did.
Pop pulled the newspaper from Mark’s tray and leaned against the kitchen counter to read about his latest work in Santa Monica. After a few moments during which Mark was presumed to be eating, he stuffed his mouth, went to the restroom, and spit it into the toilet. His stomach clamped down and he gagged. He couldn’t enjoy food while people nearby starved. He imagined that they’d be willing to give anything for a bite of his breakfast. He watched it swirl down the toilet.
He returned to the living room and thanked Pop for the breakfast. They then left for the Deedlog room that Mark had visited the previous day. The entry console flashed and beeped at the touch of Pop’s hand and the door clicked open. Inside sat three Trail Bladers, a woman and two men. At the sight of Pop, they each pulled off their headsets, stood straight up, and turned to face him.
“As you were,” Pop said. “I’m inducting Mark Denny into the inner circle. Please carry on.”
The Trail Bladers said, “Hello, Mr. Denny,” almost in unison and sat back down donning their headsets. The female Trail Blader apologized to someone with whom she had been speaking on the phone and then continued the conversation.
“You’ve already seen our Deedlog Room,” Pop said. “Fodder that we select for our mission are never random. They’re always researched, always targeted. We examine each fodder with the same scrutiny that the government screens applicants for a position requiring top-secret military clearance. We discover where they live, work, what they like to do, where they like to eat, where their relatives live, and a plethora of other relevant information. We then generate a report of their weekly geographic pattern so that we can predict their movement with enough accuracy to obtain them.”
“How do you select which people—I mean, fodder—to research?” Mark asked.
“Our actors tell us. You’ll meet them later. When actors have selected a public location, they do not insult, crowd, touch, or otherwise intimidate passersby. Actors are instructed to ask for help, gently and from a distance, and to bid everyone a good day, whether or not they give help. Fodder nominate themselves as candidates for our mission by assaulting our actors verbally, physically, or both. We then follow the new candidate to establish their home and workplace, which inevitably leads to an identity. We place a micro-GPS tracking device on their vehicle and it is monitored here.” Pop pointed to a computer screen. An icon of a car on a color map of Santa Monica blinked on and off. There were about twenty other vehicle icons in various locations, most of them stationary. The female Trail Blader placed her mouse over an icon and a description appeared beside it showing a name, address, place of work, and a calendar of this week’s likely destinations. She moved the mouse from the star and the information vanished before Mark could read it.
Mark swallowed hard. He realized that the Trail Bladers’ methods had far more technological sophistication than he had imagined. “Where do you keep them in the Nest?” Mark asked. He moved his gaze from the table to the various charts on the wall to mask his desperation for the answer to this question.
Pop clucked his tongue a few times and then said, “Come with me. You’re almost ready.”
As they neared the only exit to the Nest, Morana entered from the foyer. “I’m back, Papa,” she said. She rubbed her wrist as she walked toward them.
“What happened?” Pop said.
“He was a scratcher. He ran at me.” She held out her arm for Pop to examine. The underside of her wrist showed a puffy, two-inch scratch. “But he saw things our way after some encouragement,” she added.
“You shaken?” Pop asked.
“No. It was fantastic. I’ve been waiting for him since the day he attacked Chad.”
“Chad is one of our actors,” Pop said to Mark. “Our newest fodder has just arrived and Mo had the unfortunate experience of watching Chad get pummeled by this particular fodder a couple weeks ago. We stepped in, but Chad had already taken several blows to the face. It’s taken us two weeks to obtain his attacker—this fodder.”
“Are you giving Mark the works today?” Morana asked.
Pop nodded. “I was just about to show him the original fodder obtainment footage. Why not join us?”
“I’ve got to tend to Mr. Problem in the truck.” Morana tilted her head toward the garage.
“Is it still in the truck’s chute?”
“Snug as a bug.”
“I think he’ll wait. We won’t be long,” Pop said.
Morana pulled out a phone and pressed a key. “Yes, leave him in the chute. I have a short meeting…Thanks.”
Pop smiled and motioned for Mark and Morana to lead the way back to his office.
They sat on Pop’s sofa, and the screen appeared from the ceiling. The lights dimmed and Pop said, “Mark, what you saw yesterday when the male fodder momentarily escaped our control was an aberration in our process. You’ll see that once fodder is controlled, they experience no physical pain despite their treatment of our actors, brothers, and sisters. For our mission, fodder are a commodity that serves us best if preserved in good physical condition.”
“But you—
we
starve them,” Mark said.
An image of the interior of an elevator appeared on the screen. Pop paused it. “We never prevent fodder from searching for food. I find my own food every day; they can find theirs,” he said.
“If they can find food, then they are free to live,” Morana added.
Pop’s PDA beeped and he took it from his pocket. He held it up to his face and widened his eyes to read it before he tapped the screen and returned it to his pocket.
“But each fodder is imprisoned—how can they find food?” Mark asked.
“All your questions will be answered. After you watch this footage of an obtainment, our next stop will be the Sty, where we house the fodder.” Pop sat back in his chair and crossed his legs as the footage began.
Morana laid her head back onto the sofa as if she might take a nap.
The opening scene showed a steep angle looking down from the ceiling corner of an elevator. “From a room here in our Nest, we control four elevators in four buildings in Santa Monica,” Pop said.
“How?”
“I assumed you might enjoy the technological aspect of our remote control. Bracks Hemlanson is a genius. He controls all the technology in use by Trail Bladers. Members of our staff see him rarely, although he lives here in the Nest with us and his handiwork is everywhere. He designed our security system, biometric console entry systems, surveillance and communications systems—all from scratch. He is not only brilliant, but charming.”
Morana sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes.
“Bracks is extraordinarily persuasive,” Pop continued. “With some phone calls and a convincing uniform, he obtained a crucial elevator mechanic’s key switch for each building. He took his laptop into the elevator’s pit for each building and within hours gave us the ability to remotely override elevator movement at will. Here you’ll see it in action,” Pop said, pointing back to the screen.
Footage of Keith Mendalsen riding an elevator appeared. Mark watched as the elevator stopped, then started again and stopped. He saw Keith’s temper flare. When the doors opened, the view changed, now shot by an infrared camera located inside the vestibule. Keith’s face, arms, and hands glowed as the camera picked up his heat signature. He leaned from the elevator, called out, and then made his way out into the padded cocoon.