The Sapphire Express (26 page)

“Four thousand dollars,” the slimmer of the two fat men said sternly.

I took four thousand dollars from the hunting bag and handed the money to the man. He counted it carefully and put the wad in a little box behind the gas pump and said, “OK, you can piss off now.”

Thank you, my beautiful master,” I said and jumped into the Brabus. Then I started the beast, opened the passenger window and said to the fat men, “Enjoy the black rain, assholes. And be careful now with that delicate skin of yours. The nuclear rain may leave some nasty burn marks on it.”

Then I hit the gas pedal hard and left the two rude bastards coughing in a thick cloud of dust. They desperately needed a shower, and I figured that it was my duty to help a fellow man to discover the virtues of hot water and soap. It was too bad, though, that they weren’t going to be able to enjoy their newfound cleanliness for more than a couple of days, but I thought it was, at least, nice to die in a sparkling body.

The Brabus was gliding on the freeway like a solitary comet in the emptiness of outer space, and I felt relaxed and happy again. I had been victorious against the fools who had tried to steal my destiny, and my salvation was getting closer by the minute. I was proud that I was swimming against the tide because I had always wanted to be different, and there weren’t many things that separated a man more effectively from the flock than driving a stolen, 700-horsepower Mercedes-Benz Brabus straight into the deadly eye of a nuclear hurricane.

I was pushing the refilled Brabus hard again, and I had to do a double take when I saw a broken-down Volvo on the side of the road and a burning man standing next to it. It was a peculiar sight, but I didn’t want to stop and investigate the scene further. It was too late to try to extinguish the burning man, and any risk at that point was an unnecessary one. The human torch would have probably just scolded me with his flaming lips because it sadly looked like he had doused a gallon of gasoline on his head and set himself on fire. The man probably knew that a broken engine in a nuclear hurricane was comparable to a death sentence—a painful and prolonged death sentence. It was, therefore, better that I respected his decision and just let him burn in peace.

Other than the burning man, the last leg of my road trip was surprisingly uneventful. There were hardly any cars on the road now that the coast of doom was getting closer, and most folks had made it past the fifty-mile mark. Some of the unfortunate souls with no transportation were, however, walking on the grass, and some were sitting on the side of the freeway with their heads between their knees. It was a sad and hopeless sight, and I didn’t really know what to think about the whole thing. Abandoned stuff was littering the landscape like it was a landfill for quality trash, and it was heartbreaking to imagine that the countless TVs, microwaves, clothes, computers, printers, paintings, bicycles, toys, books, sofas, chairs, refrigerators, and anything else from A to Z that now lay on the dirty road, had once been in someone’s happy house. They had been important items for them but lost all their value as soon as the owners had realized that their families’ lives depended on that one tank of gas that was disappearing fast. The heavy sixty-inch high-definition televisions, washing machines, canoes, and sofas had to go.

I felt sorry for the desperate souls and their terrible struggle to save their families, but there was nothing I could do for them. I was headed to the coast of death, and my only goal was to get there safely and avoid any unnecessary encounters with the crazies. I really, really needed them to leave me alone now and let me enjoy my last moments on earth in peace. I was so close to the grand finale that the thought of someone biting my goddamn Adam’s apple off before the storm of deliverance would make its magical landfall made me shiver with anxiety.

I drove the last miles on the empty freeway like in an apocalyptic dream, and the mighty Brabus was soon only a short drive away from my final destination. I slowed down to 50 miles per hour and opened the window. The air was still crisp and fresh, and for a fleeting moment, I thought that Annalise was sitting in the backseat with Eden, and the storm was only a product of morbid imagination. I was still a stupid man.

I exited the freeway after crossing a white iron bridge and drove through a small coastal town that was totally devoid of people. Even the crazies had left the desolate place, and only a couple of doomed cats and dogs walked the quiet streets, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they, too, were going to suffer a horrible fate in less than seventy-two hours. I wished them all well and commanded the Brabus to march forward. It obliged, as it always did, and the eerie town of looming death was soon just a speck in the rearview mirror.

After about a mile or two of cautious driving, I crossed another bridge and was greeted on the other side by a dead man hanging from a hackberry tree. A shaggy raccoon sat on his rotting head, happily eating a blue catfish. I shrugged and continued driving. There was nothing to see there—just a dead man with a shaggy raccoon on his head.

I drove about five more miles on the small country road and finally saw the brown, hand-painted entrance sign that I had been waiting for. I stopped the Brabus at the sign and took a deep breath. I had finally arrived at my destination: “The Avenue of the Oaks.” My gateway to eternity.

The Avenue of the Oaks was literally a quarter-mile oak-lined avenue that led to an antebellum mansion that was carefully hidden from curious eyes. I had seen pictures of the place in magazines before, but it was much more beautiful in real life, and I rode my iron horse through the canopied driveway with dignity and gratification glowing in my old man’s eyes. It was a magnificent way to end my wicked journey, and I arrived at the forecourt of the huge plantation home with a gratified smile on my face.

I parked in front of the main building and let my muscles relax a little. Then I took the Sig from the hunting bag and shot a few rounds in the air and waited for a couple of minutes. No one came out of the house, or peeked through the windows, and it was evident that the threat of thyroid cancer and other disgusting things had scared away all the people, just as I had expected. The mansion was all mine.

It was, yet, a little unnerving to realize that I was never going to leave that place and return to society. I was never going to drive a car again or drink a beer—or a godfather—or talk to a living soul. I was never going to have to worry about life’s little challenges or shoot the crazies in the face with my unforgiving Sig Sauer. I was never going to have to apply for a mortgage or tolerate a boss who was dumber than me, more incompetent than me, or both. No more stressing over money, bills, car payments, retirement, or whatnot. No more waking up in the morning just to realize that my hands had turned old and wrinkly overnight. No more watching my weight or sweating over hypertension or an enlarged prostate or regretting an unnecessary, selfish divorce. No more doctors, no more bankers, no more growing old, no more relatives and no more friends. No more in-laws, and no more enemies. No more happiness and no more pain. No more nightmares about that goddamn silly rat that was trapped in my gut and trying to eat its way out with its yellow teeth. I was finally free.

I took my stuff from the Brabus and dropped the hunting bag at the mansion’s front door. The door was locked, and I raised one of the Remingtons and shot the old lock into pieces. Then I kicked the door open with my powerful boots and stepped in.

The house was enormous, and it was full of antique furniture and portraits of old men in black suits and bowties. A massive chandelier hung above the entryway, and oriental rugs covered the mansion’s beautiful hardwood floors. The living room was so luxurious that one could have easily believed that the sultan of Cashmire himself spent his afternoons there. It was a splendid home; there was no question about that, but I was too tired to enjoy its beauty and exquisite interior design. I just wanted to find a room where I would spend my final hours and collect my thoughts. I knew that it was going to be a magnificent night, a birthplace of eternal dreams, and the beginning of something new, something mysterious, something magical. It was a gateway to a place where Annalise was waiting for me.

I found the mother of all master bedrooms in the upstairs and lay down on the colossal bed that was probably much older than me. I was totally exhausted, and darkness was already peeking through the windows like a greedy thief. All I wanted to do was to drift away into the land of dreams and let me body and mind enjoy a well-deserved break from all the madness and death. I closed my eyes and started thinking about the world and its maddening unpredictability and cruel indifference.

My life had been like a cake that was half chocolate and half arsenic. I had been magnificently blessed and brutally cursed. My childhood had been modest and safe, and kindness and understanding had never been far away from my house. My youth had been uneventful but pleasant, and the magic of hope had always been present in my willing heart. My adulthood had been an experience that put me on my knees, cut me wide open with a rusty butcher’s knife, and devoured my organs with a poisoned mouth full of sharp lizard’s fangs. I had been given the most precious gift in the whole universe, but it had been taken from me like it was worth nothing—crushed like an unwanted Easter egg without anyone even telling me why.

I never had a chance to see the world, but I had still learned that madness and great kindness didn’t respect man-made borders, and people were all made with the same basic ingredients. I had learned that a man’s life was a game of chance, and any one of us could have been born anywhere on our planet, in any womb. My soul could have lived inside a humble Berber in the solitude of the silent desert, and he could have been growing inside my mother’s merciful belly.

My life had been unconventional, but I had never imagined that I would end up in a doomed mansion where hope and solace were traveling on the back of an approaching nuclear storm. I had never thought that I would kill beastly men with my callous hands and transform into a dirty, tainted being who had to wash his hands with bleach and rub his skin until it bled like a lost lamb on the hollow altar of a goddamn fool. I had never understood that tragedy was capable of turning a quiet math teacher into a ruthless predator who hunted men at night and feared nothing—not even the gods.

I didn’t know why I had been yanked out of society and forced to look at the world from a perspective of a total outsider. Humanity’s problems and challenges didn’t matter to me anymore, and I was living in a strange land somewhere between reality and eternity. I was still alive, but I had no purpose in the world of the living. The birthday cakes, honeymoons, baby showers, graduations, garden parties, car loans, holidays, promotions, and ambitions of the busy, busy bees seemed a like distant dream, a dream where I no longer belonged.

Yet I was proud of what I had become. I hadn’t yielded and died as a bitter old man in a pool of salty tears. I had escaped my destiny and butchered the demons that tried to drown me in the murky waters of desperation and fear. I had been victorious, and a powerful, unexpected creature had risen from the ashes of misery and pain and set the Angel of Death on fire. That creature was stronger than the devil himself. That creature was me.

I never, however, found out what that creature exactly was, but I knew that he was an unnecessary one—a mutated scorpion that should have never been born. The man in the Bronco had no idea what he started when he took my angel from me. He didn’t know that he was a worthless piece of shit who didn’t have the right to murder an innocent child whose only sin was that she had been born into the world of man. He didn’t know that when the last cicadas started screaming under the midnight moon, a man who didn’t want to change was transformed into an alternative beast.

I still blame the bastard in the Bronco, and I blame the devil, too. I blame humanity and the wickedness and filth of man and his disgusting addictions. I despise the terror in his greedy, lustful eyes, and I want him to stop tormenting the innocent and cut that chain of misery that he keeps welding in his dark shed.

I hate the man who took Annalise more than I hate my demons, and I still want to kill him and cut his rotten heart in half with a burning knife. I will never forgive that dirty spawn of Satan because forgiveness doesn’t apply to crimes against children. The sharp blade of vengeance is the only mercy that such a beast deserves, and even that is too lenient for him. I will never pardon evil because I am the twisted sword of justice, and I carry the heads of the arrogant on my unforgiving belt with pride. I am the angry suburban man, and I fast-track hell for the selected few.

12

The Day of the Nuclear Lord

I burned the mansion and the Brabus today. I burned all the guns, too, except the Remington that I am holding in my arms at this very moment. I kept it because I have to make sure that the crazies won’t run from the bushes and ruin everything, now that I am so close to the grand finale.

It is soon time, my dear friend, but before I go, I want to tell you that it was not my intention to make you uncomfortable or upset you. I just wanted to tell you my story exactly as it happened and die an honest death. I didn’t lie or exaggerate; you can be sure of that. I am a flawed man, but I am not a liar, and I still piss in the shower. I also know that I am a bad man, and I accept that because it is the truth, after all. I am not going to stand here on the beach of death and deliverance and tell you that my actions were justified or fair. I behaved the way I did simply because I wanted to, not because I had the right to do so.

If the devil tries to take me to hell tonight and make me pay for the souls I stole from him, I will fight him like the God’s last gladiator, and I will prevail, and when the moon disappears behind the snowy mountains and dark blood starts rushing out of my mouth of fury, I will slay his demons with my bare hands and burn their stained souls with thermite and sick man’s gasoline. I will crush my enemies like little funny candy canes, even if they are strong and powerful, even if they are the goddamn immortals. I have the necessary strength and resolve to destroy them all because I have Annalise, and she will fill me with might that cannot be overcome by anything that rises from hell’s sordid valleys.

I am not sad that my life is over because I still have a purpose in eternity. I am still important there, even if I am just a shadow of a man on this lonely planet. I must go because I just can’t watch another goddamn Gemini rise in the morning sky, knowing that my daughter is somewhere there alone and unprotected. I need to touch her silky hair and make sure that she is with the angels and smiling in the arms of the loving God—or whoever controls the place where the kind and decent go. I have to see her with my own eyes because I don’t trust the word of man or believe his empty promises. I don’t, because I am one myself.

You may think that I am going to be dead as a stone tomorrow, but I know that I will see my daughter. I will touch her ruddy cheeks gently and kiss her angel’s hand with a father’s loving lips. I will hold her in my arms and run my fingers through her soft hair, because she is real, and she is alive. She is waiting for me there with the book about forest animals in her tiny hand, and I will read it to her, and then I will cry my proud tears because she is my precious daughter, and I am her father. I am her guardian and the man who will never fail her again. I will never let the devil touch her or even breathe near my precious love. I will keep her safe. I promise you that.

Well, my friend, my ride is here. I can sense the menace in the ocean air, and the cold wind is rising from the east. The putrid scent of death is traveling in the iodine sky, and nature is preparing for the thrashing of a lifetime. All the seagulls are gone, and the fish are hiding in the quiet abyss of the ancient seas. They know that death has arrived. The sun has disappeared, too, but it is still watching us naive and foolish from the safety of its distant home. It knows that man can learn, and even remember for a while, but only when he is beaten senseless and lying on the ground—only when he is begging for mercy and weeping in his madness.

I am going to be gone tomorrow, but you will survive this storm because you are like that flower growing in the crack of a freeway. Your will to live is stronger than death’s bony grip, and you are going to push its scaly fingers away—I am sure of that. You will be OK, but you must learn to love the innocent, protect the defenseless, and forget your guns and your bombs and your silly wars. You must stop the madness because there is an inexplicable beauty hidden in the eyes of a child, and that beauty is more powerful than evil, more magical than we can ever imagine. Children are everything we have, the meaning of life itself, and we must protect them at all costs. That is our only mission on this earth, and if we fail, we are truly unworthy of the gift of life. The race for survival is still on, and the species who will rule the world permanently has not yet been chosen. The winner will not be the one who allows the defenseless to be tormented, raped, and burned by fool’s fire—the one who turns away when fear scolds him with its empty words. That much I know.

Well, enough of my selfish sandbox philosophy. I really have to go now because I see the big wave coming, and it has my name on it. Good-bye, my friends. Wish me well. I will be waiting for you on the other side with my daughter. If you want to find me, come to the crystal river when the night is at its darkest and the skylarks sleep in the quiet meadows. I will read to you the book about forest animals and let you hold Annalise in your arms, if you want—Annalise, my sweet princess, my treasure, my life.