Disclaimer: Fan Fiction Inspired by the film The Matrix by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999). The Ghost in the Machine and The Hecate Cycle © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002)
Credits: Opening lyrics from In the Kingdom of the Blind The One-Eyed Are Kings (Dead Can Dance, A Passage in Time)
Ratings:
± Complete work: R for Language and Violence.
± Chapter Eight: PG13 for Mild Violent Imagery.
Chapter Nine But Not Forgotten…For time has imprisoned us
In the order of our years,
In the discipline of our ways
And in the passing of momentary stillness
We can view our chaos in motion
And the subsequent collisions of fools
Well versed in the subtle art of slavery.
The afternoon repeated itself. The weary gray sky hung low and the rain made halfhearted threats. Little changed. He crossed his thin legs and leaned back against the neglected brick wall. A cluster of noisy children swarmed around the bus stop weighed down by ambitious book bags and the cares of preadolescent life in an imaginary world. The jittery boy with flax colored hair sprinted through his classmates wielding his thumb and forefinger with deadly accuracy. Through dark glasses, he watched him until the cumbersome orange bus arrived and absorbed children, navy blue blazers, math homework, pencil cases and all.
The afternoon repeated itself. Silence encircled the bus stop. A forgotten food pyramid mobile wrapped around the metal pole, the gentle breeze making a tangled morass of green yarn and hastily colored pictures of milk cartons and canned corn. Paper turkeys and cotton ball snowmen were the most popular 'leave-behinds,' but it was too early in the semester for such and perhaps this would be the year of the food pyramid mobile. A rusted chain scraped against the wrought iron gates and a cassocked monsignor double-checked the lock. Clockwork. The monsignor looked up, recognized the sentinel and raised a hand in acknowledgement. He never responded and the monsignor never crossed the street.
He remembered the radio…or a radio…or was it the television…
ENF 70858.01 Emotive File 710.01 H. Temporal Record Error 604. Spatial Record Error 510. Corrupt File. General Error 102.
Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103. Origination Error 301. Source Error 302 "…This afternoon authorities confirmed that the child was reported missing on 13 August…" Content Error 001
Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103. Origination Error 301. Source Error 302 "…the child did not run away, yet the parents remain hopeful that he will call…" Content Error 002
Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103. Origination Error 301. Source Error 302 "…It has been six days…" Content Error 003 "Federal authorities have been unsuccessful…" Content Error 004
Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103. Origination Error 301. Source Error 302 "…Vanished from his newspaper route on Summit View Avenue…" Content Error 005
Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103. Origination Error 301. Source Error 302 "…No trace…" Content Error 006 "No suspects…" Content Error 007
Media transmission. Pitch and Resonance Recording. Audio Error 103. Origination Error 301. Source Error 302 "…Unsolved…" Content Error 008. End of Record.
Smith pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The folly of his gesture produced an irritable grimace and he shoved the shades into his breast pocket adding to his annoyance the sound of cracked plastic. He pressed his molars together. "Son of a bitch, Frank." Had the words been spoken he would have clamped his hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to silence them; however, he did not speak the words. He thought them and that could be even worse. Stillness settled over the cloudy day and he prayed the error would go unnoticed as so many other things did. He prayed and then reminded himself that he had no god. There was no god.
"Quite pale, even for your kind." The woman in black closed her umbrella and sat down on the bench built into the low brick wall. She placed her shopping bag between her feet and laid the umbrella across her knees. Silver rings with faded gems adorned each finger. The size of her swollen joints precluded removing the rings without surgical instruments. A tarnished crucifix dangled at the end of an amber glass Rosary slung round her neck. She knew it was not meant be to an accessory and did not intend for it to be construed as such, but she felt that she needed her religion close by, especially now, lest she fall. She was also quite certain that no one would mistake her for a misplaced pop star. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Once the incredulity passed, he took a moment to respond. "There is no such thing except in the minds of the ignorant and superstitious like yourself." He exhaled and forced his focus on the palms of his hands.
Undaunted, she raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. "I beg to differ. They are all around us." Her accented voice was steady, nonchalant as though she were speaking with another old woman at the Laundromat or vegetable stand. She was not afraid of him. Arthritic hands pawed through her shopping bag and produced a small bag of banana chips. "All around us and with us always." She nodded at the empty school and the abandoned bus stop. "Always." Smith started to get up, but she reached out and caught his sleeve.
"You are a fool," he hissed.
"Hardly, a fool revels in his ignorance and I have not that luxury."
"You fail to grasp the extent of your ignorance." He sneered.
She was uninterested in playing cat and mouse. "Help me and I'll help you."
He yanked his arm out of her grasp. "Do not be so presumptuous to think that you could assist me in any way."
Patiently, she drew her hand back and a soft smile creased her old lips. "We carry our ghosts with us in all our lives." Brightness filled her as she watched his sneer transform into discomfort. He glanced at the street and straightened his tie before meeting her eyes and sitting back down.
"Why do you approach me? Why not talk to Thoreau? I am certain she would entertain your delusions."
"I attempted to speak with her about this matter and she was not interested. Appearances are deceiving—you know that—she's less inclined to believe in that which is not easily explained." She pushed a loose strand of gray hair back away from her temple. "You on the other hand…"
"You know nothing of me." It was as much of a threat as a statement.
"You'd be surprised." She leveled a wrinkled finger at him and then gestured over her shoulder. "I know that if you follow the path to the Handprint Elm and turn right at the little statue of the boy with the dog you'll find a broken marker on an empty grave you've been trying to fill for years."
A look of abject horror wrenched its way across his face, its repercussions surfacing in his tightened neck muscles and clenched fist. With an unnatural grace he sprang to his feet and the icy barrel of his gun pressed into her forehead. The old woman revealed neither surprise nor outward concern to the sudden change of events and met his cold stare.
"Fear me." The words escaped him in a low growl.
"I do not fear the monster that can destroy this body, I only fear the one who can destroy this soul." She struck her breast.
"You are insane and it will cost you your pathetic existence."
She continued to stare into his eyes. "I want my granddaughter back and you want to close a chapter on a life that once was. You help me and I'll help you."
"You are in no position to make demands of me."
"It was a perfect world where everyone was happy. Everyday was Labor Day. The boys home from the war, brand new houses, KitchenAid appliances, and wall-to-wall carpeting. We played bridge, drank Martinis and clipped coupons." She snorted. "It was a godforsaken copy of the August 1954 edition of Better Homes and Gardens. A perfect world right down to the shelf paper and Chanel No. 5." Her eyes narrowed. "Perfect except for the 60% suicide rate, but that was permissible as the program still had some glitches to work out."
The gun did not waver.
She continued speaking, comfortable in the tenuous nature of her existence. "One afternoon changed everything, changed everyone's lives. Changed yours and mine. Thomas Caroll Whitaker vanished—never came back from his paper route. Just like August 1954, but this time it was not supposed to happen and it did. The FBI came, but the body never turned up; just like 1954 and just like 1994—"
"How do you know this?"
"I see things."
"You are going to see your own death. How do you know about Thomas Caroll?"
"The same creature who took the paper boys took my granddaughter, dismembered the young man in the hangar, snapped Margaret Tanger's neck like an old pencil and set an eyeless girl dancing. He knows how it all works and he won't stop unless you catch him. It's a game."
"How do you—"
"Daedalus. The monster calls himself Daedalus."
The traffic seemed to stop. Smith took an involuntary step backwards and lowered the gun.
"You can feel him in air you breathe and hear him when the wind blows, but you never stop to think if he's not feeling and listening to you as well." She stood up. "Some things can not be hidden, even with the best smoke and mirrors."
* * *
Gentle hands ripped the yellow rose petals into irregular shreds and scattered them across the empty gave. Absently, he looked up to watch the man in the black suit hold a gun to the old woman's head and almost choked suppressing his laughter. The gray afternoon clouds drifted across the sun and heavy drops began to fall as the bells of St. Vitus ordered the five o'clock mass. Gonging and clanging against the approaching deluge, the bells fell on dead ears.
A muddled starling alighted on the statue of the boy. The man in the long coat turned over his hand and a lock of long blond hair tumbled to the ground landing on top of the broken rose stems. Narrow Italian loafers trampled the memento into the mud as he walked towards the statue.
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary…" A delicate hand bloodied from the rose thorns, dipped into a deep pocket. "You know what bird?" He paused for the bird's response. "I'm neither weak nor weary."
The starling toppled from the statue and writhed for a brief moment as its sticky blood soaked its feathers. Some may have been impressed with the prowess it took to impale a fair sized black bird with a steak knife from ten feet away. Impressive, yes, but how he had honed his skill was quite gruesome—even to someone keen on killing birds.
* * *
