“I’m sure Israel is in no position to dictate the outcome of this stalemate,” says Hoffmann.
“Israel is transfixed by its religious culture, and there is absolutely no influence beyond that land that poses a threat to our agenda. We are the world powers, gentlemen, and we control the trade embargos,” says Yeung.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, your overconfidence in this matter will be the death of you,” says Gorshkov.
“I’m not so sure my country can sustain another war,” says Talbani.
“We may be in the midst of a global uprising, but we cannot afford to make assumptions based on past political mistakes,” says Kriel.
Hoffman scoffs. “I don’t see any real reason we should continue with this debate. This is not our main objective. The issue is—”
“The real issue at hand is right in front of you, President Hoffman, but you cowardly reject even the idea that your nation could fall,” Gorshkov declares.
“As head of this international council, I extend to you all with great respect your audacious speculations, but I’m becoming frequently displeased with your political malcontent. This is the time, my fellow privileged comrades,” Gorshkov says, pacing around the table with his hands behind his back. “We decide here and now, and if anyone wishes to decline their invitation, then be advised that your country will no longer be under international immunity. I have a great vision for our nations to come together with the ideals that this world was meant to be ruled under,” Gorshkov says.
“I don’t think it’s in the best interest for my country to have to suffer through another political regime just so we can establish a stable economy,” says Sardina.
“This isn’t about a global economy. This is about the power to control a race of men and women who share a common ideology, and our Head of State seems to be in over his head trying to bring together ten nations to agree upon this philosophy,” says Hoffmann.
“Oh, the irony coming from a nation that once failed to breed a perfect race. Perhaps you would rather join Israel and receive the same suffering?” says Gorshkov.
“My country is not afraid of your pompous threats. My devotion is to my country, and I pledge no alliance to anyone who believes differently. Your arrogance cannot force me to make a hasty decision based on a vision and precarious assumptions,” Hoffman confidently says.
“So be it,” Gorshkov says with absolutely no emotion on his face. He pulls out a gun and shoots President Hoffman in the back of the head, spraying blood and bits of brain onto the white table. “Any other objections?” Gorshkov says to the others as they stare back in shock.
He briefly turns from the men as they all look at each other, wondering what the consequences may be if they wish not to decide.
“Israel will either join us or they will be destroyed!” shouts Naifeh.
Gorshkov slowly turns back toward the men, smiling, and pounds his fists on the table. “What say you, men? Do you have the heart of a lion or the blood of a fowl?”
Just when things become interesting, I’m quickly interrupted from this vision by Finnegan’s erratic driving skills. We nearly hit a deer, but he manages to swerve and miss it.
We’ve been driving for hours, and my jaw is sore from resting on the side of the car door. I look out the window and see nothing but darkness. The night has come upon us, and I suddenly feel a sense of urgency to get out of the car to recirculate the blood in my numb legs. Everyone else appears to be asleep except Finnegan, thank God,
because he’s behind the wheel. A line of brightness outlines the curvature of the earth just slightly above the steep hill in front of us, and as we drive closer to the top, the light gradually bends upward, revealing more of a glow. Just below the other side of the hill, lights burn bright, illuminating a small city that looks to still be awake.
Instead of driving directly into the city, Finnegan finds a rundown inn off a side road about ten blocks from town. An old wooden sign swings back and forth hanging onto its rusty chains with the words
Occupancy
carved into it. You wouldn’t know it by first glance, but I believe the old cottage looks as if it was bright white at one time. Although the scars from the peeling paint and termite-eaten planks tell a different story, I feel strangely comfortable staying here rather than in the city. I just hope the inside is more inviting than the outside.
Before Henry can knock, the door creeks open just enough for two wide eyes to peer through the open crevice. “Excuse me, ma’am, we are in need of a place to stay the night,” says Henry.
“Possibly more than one night,” adds Finnegan.
The door swings open, and an older woman appears through the rusty screen. Her frightened face is filled with a sudden shock of surprise when she sees us standing outside the door, but none of us are carrying any weapons that would imply any kind of threat. I’m a little perplexed by her reaction, but more so when she opens the door and hurriedly ushers us in.
“Please, hurry. Come in, come in,” she says, as she quickly closes the door behind us and locks it tightly with three deadbolts.
We all curiously stare at the woman rushing around and peeping through the dingy blinds by the front windows. I turn and look at Henry, who shrugs his shoulders in confusion.
While the woman intently spies out the window, she yells something out in Spanish, and a little girl about eight years old comes out from the kitchen. “Come with me, please,” the little girl says. She begins to take us upstairs to our rooms, but the woman quickly stops her and tells her to take us down the long hallway.
“Wait,
por favor,”
I say to the little girl as I turn to talk to the old woman
“Señora, ¿hay algo mal”
I ask. She realizes she can’t hide the truth any longer when I ask her what is wrong.
“Evil men have been looking for you. They have come to ask about you,” she says.
“What men?” I ask.
“Soldiers, officers, even citizens around the city.”
“Citizens?” Gabe asks.
It’s begun; the first wave of sheep straying into the darkness without a shepherd. Many will follow where they feel safe and begin to choose sides that will immediately benefit them or destroy them. Their eyes will always be fixed on what they can see, and be blind to what they cannot. They have no God to find hope in, and they will soon perish like the others.
“How do you know they are looking for us?” I ask.
She picks up her Bible, then points toward Gabe and me. “You and him have come to deliver us, no? We have been feverishly praying day after day for years, and then yesterday, we hear rumors floating in from the west about you. You are just as they described. We have heard the things you have done, the blood you have spilled. Many people have been praying for your protection,” she says, holding my hand.
An older gentleman walks down the stairs and trembles with fright, hiding behind a chair when he sees Gabe and me.
“Hay muerte entre nosotros,”
the old man says.
“Why is he so scared?” asks Juliana.
“Because I have invited the angel of death into my home.” She gestures for the old man to leave.
“So I have been hearing,” I say.
“We thank you for opening up your home for our stay. We will try not to wear out our welcome,” I say.
“You are in a holy house on unholy land. You are welcome to seek refuge here as long as you need. It’s just me and the girl, and we have plenty of food, supplies, and warm water for your comfort.”
“Thank you kindly,” I say.
“If you need anything, you can call on me. My name is Maria, and that little girl hiding behind you is Isabel,” she says.
“Please forgive me for not introducing myself. I’m Arena, this is my brother, Gabriel, and this is Juliana, Henry, and Finnegan,” I say.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Please come and I will show you to your rooms,” Maria says.
Our rooms are small, but adequate, and if there was ever a time that warm water was as essential as food, it is right now; it’s all I can think about. Each room is accompanied with a mirror, a nightstand, which holds a Bible, and nicely folded towels sitting on a rather tightly tucked quilt. Grime collects on the ends of the bed skirting, and cobwebs latch onto the corners of the room. Either this house breathes dust, or this room has been unoccupied for a very long time.
I slap the center of the quilted bed and dust particles explode into the air and float around until they cascade back down. I once read that
seventy-five- to- ninety percent of the dust in your home is actually dead skin cells. I can’t wait to lie down among the dead skin of several hundred other people who have lain here before me.
The yellowing of the wallpaper and the cracked plastered ceiling gives the room … a sense of character, as they say. Yeah, right, the character of an old haggard and gnarled woman slowly dying. Time has transposed this once newly decorated room into a worn-out, withering story. I try to imagine how many travelers who have passed through these doors and slept in this very bed may have played an influential role in changing someone’s life. People and things come and go, live and die, stand or wither, but time will always stay the same until the end comes and nothing or no one is left to see it exist.
There is an adjoining building, the bar, that sits behind and to the right of the inn that brings in the smells of cheap cigars and musky oils. I can hear two old men arguing about who bought who drinks the night before. I wouldn’t have known what day it is if I was not listening to the crotchety, old geezers spatting back and forth. The days have no meaning to me anymore—just the time of day at sunrise and sunset.
While my better judgment tells me to go to sleep, I rebelliously ignore it instead. I decide to take a peek at the city with Gabe while the others stay back to get some rest. Just in case we run into some unnecessary entanglements, I take a few weapons with me. Gabe throws me my black cloak to conceal them. “No, you don’t look suspicious at all,” Gabe sarcastically says.
Downtown is only ten blocks away, but where we stand, darkness dominates our surroundings, and the only light illuminating the sky is coming from the moon and the dimly lit lantern outside the bar entrance. Once we cross over the hill, we see the sleepless city below as its lights glow embers in the night sky.
It doesn’t take us too long to reach the outer part of the city before we are greeted by an unsightly group of strangers. The black garb draping down over their bodies dominates their wardrobe, and their faces are so pale, they almost glow in the dark.
Gabe consciously tries not to stare, and finds it hard not to laugh at the group of gothic teens. It’s not until we get closer when one of the girls smiles at Gabe, revealing her sharp canines, that I suddenly realize we are passing by a ridiculously attention-seeking vampire mob. I honestly didn’t know that this cultural underground following still existed until tonight.
We are hissed at as we pass except for one guy who stares intently at me. One of the older pretentiously devoted vampire leaders
approaches Gabe and asks if he has any blood to share with the others. “No, but my sister has spilled enough blood to supply you for a lifetime,” says Gabe. He chuckles a bit, but graciously holds back any harsh laughter that would otherwise insult these poor forgotten teens who have probably been picked on their whole lives. I almost sympathize with them until one of them tries to grope me from behind.
I quickly grab his hand, turning it behind his back, and slam him into the ground. Suddenly, about a dozen other vampire followers appear from behind the dark alley. “Release him now!” yells a voice from the pack. The only thing that keeps me from breaking this kid’s arm and slinging a knife into the other’s throat is the innocence of their imagination, even if it is completely absurd. What is mostly sad is that they have been pretending to be this mythological immortal creature for so long that they really believe they are vampires.
I’m actually in a playful mood, so I let the kid go and politely go along with their role playing just to humor them. “May we take passage through your territory, my lord?” I ask, as if that is how one talks to a vampire. Gabe rolls his eyes and looks away to discreetly conceal his smirking face.
“Who is asking?” the older one says.
The hood of my cloak hides most of my face, but I’m reluctant to remove it and possibly expose who we are. “Just a stranger,” I say.
A group of boys moves in front of us and block our path. “No strangers shall pass through here unless they give something in return or if we deem you worthy enough to pass,” the boy says.
Gabe looks at me and shakes his head. “Seriously, who the hell talks like that?”
“Reveal yourself now,” the boy demands.
Okay, I was willing to play along, but now I’m becoming a little irritated. The quaint smile on my face has turned serious, and the tone has drastically changed from playful to aggravating. I’m suddenly having distaste for vampire geeks, and the only cure for this unexpected displeasure is to silence their bark, which is unequivocally louder than their bite, no pun intended.
As I slowly pull back my hood, one of the girls asks me who I am. “I’m called by many names, but tonight, I’m a stranger who’s passing through,” I say.
An abrasive-looking young man, which I can only assume is the leader, walks closer to me, breathing down the back of my neck. His face is pale like the others, and the closer he gets, it’s plainly obvious he’s caked on too much white makeup because it is cracked along his
jawline. His eyes have an animal-like appearance, probably from fake lenses. His hair is stringy, greasy, and black, as one would expect from a Goth. He’s tall and lanky, but perceptibly dominant among the others. “Unless you somehow pass through this line, you’re going to have to turn back,” he says in my ear.
“Uh, yeah, you really don’t want to do that,” Gabe cautions to him.
I’ve been tolerant up to this point, but now my patience has grown thin. “If you even attempt to bite me with those absurd prosthetic teeth, I’ll gut you like a fish.”
“I don’t think so,” he says. I glance at Gabe, and he surprisingly nods, giving me the green light to end this small, ridiculous standoff to a bunch of
Twilight-obsessed
imbeciles.