Fate Of The Dragon Page 3

  Yikes. That does not sound pleasant.

  “For the 10% that will make it in, this next section is for you.” The picture on the screen changes to a new image. This image looks like a big empty bowl, lined with the same thick wall as the barrier.

  The captain pauses again. He stares in my general direction. I look behind me, and it is not the fool this time with the question; it is someone else.

  “Sir, what happens during that other week? You know the one where the control barriers are open and not together?”

  Still staring, the captain says with a very cold and neutral face, “That is the week of the red death. The entire place is quarantined, and we are denied access.”

  Gross. No red death for me, thanks.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this next portion is very crucial to pay attention to. This is the incubation chamber. Yes, it is very large, but no it is not your final destination. While you are in this section, you are to locate the northern halls. Within these halls you will find the treasure sphere.” The picture zooms in and highlights a sphere. “This is your final destination. Your mission is to travel through the chamber to the northern halls, and then locate the sphere. Once you reach the sphere, you will engage in attack mode. Your primary objective then becomes to penetrate the sphere. I am a firm believer in the term ‘strength in numbers’, which is why there are so many of you. It will take all of your effort to break down the barriers of the sphere. Unfortunately, it is highly unlikely that more than one of you will reach the center.

  “To ensure a successful mission you all have been equipped with special suits upon creation. White is the designated color schematic for all of you. Each of you have been downloaded with a special code that is unique to only you. There is no one else like you, and there are no copies.”

  The picture on the right side turns off, and the captain takes up the whole screen again.

  “That is all the information that we can offer you at this time. Anything further as to what happens to you, whether you reach the sphere or not, is beyond our understanding. Are there any questions so far?”

  I look around. Nope.

  “Good. Now that you understand your mission, I will explain what you all are. You have all been created with a certain shape and purpose. You all have been given a jet pack, which will link directly into your craft before you load into the tunnel. I know that there is always a small handful of you that test it out to see how it works. Be mindful, that your fuel does not replenish. However, let me draw your attention to this last slide. This is your vehicle transport. Each of you will be assigned one upon entry in the tunnel. You jet pack will hook in directly to the inside, as well as your data pad. It is fluid, and flexible. It moves with you and makes you incredibly agile. They are white in color and match your suit. It’s only large enough to contain one of you at a time; so, no sharing transports. It’s designed specifically to be aerodynamic, large and round near the front while tapering off to a point at the back. Each transport comes equipped with a fully functional shield that surrounds the front end. This is your only means of attack; you will all ram the sphere until it cracks and gives way.” The image on the screen rotates and the front piece is highlighted; blinking several times.

  “What makes you unique is the information you have been encoded with upon creation. I do not have the capabilities, or the knowledge to tell you what each and every single one of you has locked away. It is up to the Superintendent to tell you that.

  “If you look down at your data pads, you will see that you all have been engrained with a number. This number can be any number of digits in length. These numbers will light up when it is your time to report to the loading docks; either E1 or E2.

  “That concludes my portion of the welcome brief. In a few moments, you will be greeted by the Superintendent.” The whole auditorium erupts in cheering. “The screen will go blank after I am done, and then He will make himself known to you. You must understand that His voice will come in a myriad of different forms; most of which I cannot even begin to count. He will give you your final instructions from here. Do you have to listen? Absolutely not. After I am done, you are free to go. If you choose to stay and listen, that is fine too. My segment is done, and I must return to my duties on board this vessel. I wish you all good journey, and good luck.” Once the screen goes blank, the curved metal plates lift off of our arms, and curl their way back underneath the chairs.

  Wait a minute: all of that unique information for the millions in attendance at the same time. Wouldn’t that be confusing? I mean, what if I get mine mixed up with the idiot behind me? What if he wants to trade data pads or something?

  “My child, you make me laugh. I love how you are so inquisitive.”

  I’m stunned. I wait for more.

  “I have created you to be rare. I have created you to be a leader of men. You will do great things in my name. You will change an entire nation of people. You will ignite a whole world. There are generals that will not be as high ranking as I will make you.

  “Your name will be Aiden. That name means ‘Little Fire’, and you will shine forth before millions of people.

  2

  Solitary Confinement

  It’s times like these that worry me. It’s times like these that my mother used to always warn me about. “Keep a watchful eye, and never stop praying! People are wicked, and they should never be trusted.”, she used to say. She was right. People have become more and more evil. Dare I say they have become sin itself? It’s possible.

  My mother passed on when I was a younger. I believe I was just on my way out of seminary; my final year, in fact, when she passed. Twenty-one years of age is too young to lose your parent, in my opinion. That was 30 years ago. She didn’t go well either. Her last five years on this earth, were spent bed ridden, coughing, hacking, and yelling constant obscenities at whoever would listen. The walls were a frequent audience. I had to attend night classes to ensure that I remained on the roster, because the day was spent tending after my mother.

  I do not miss cleaning the bed pan.

  The rain thrashes against my window. The memory of my mother retreats into the recesses of my mind. It’s funny how violent precipitation brings back those haunting visions of her. Sometimes I ask myself if I miss her. The same answer always comes back, “Nope”. Well, that’s not entirely true. What I do miss are the meals. She used to be the best cook I ever knew! Not a single restaurant could hold a candle to what she crafted in the kitchen. Sometimes, on Saturdays, she would invite her friends over to eat with us. Each one in turn would highly complement her cooking or attempt to convince her that she need to open up her own restaurant. Each time, my mother would just place her fingers gently on her lips, giggle, and politely decline.

  There was no better cook than my mother. I will happily accredit my plump body to her amazing meal perfection. My stomach is rumbling now just thinking about her specialty desserts. On top of everything else, her desserts were my absolute favorite. She made anything from carrot cake, chocolate mousse filled cookies, orange crunch cake, and her award-winning banana pudding. I pat my belly as I sit here on the edge of my squeaky bed. It has a very significant jiggle when I hit it just right. Sometimes when I know that no one is looking, I like to scrunch my stomach down and make a face out of it. I like to take my hands and move around my belly button to make it talk or whistle at me in the mirror. At times, it was my only source of entertainment. Yes, it’s juvenile, but at 51 years of age, you can disguise that kind of thing as just being an eccentric middle-aged man. Not that I would have ever intentionally let anyone see me do that. When I was young, I would lock the door to save embarrassment, but my mother would always catch me if I lost track of time. She used to pick the lock from outside the bathroom door and yell at me. If she was having a really rough day, she would barge in and strangle me in order to emphasize her point. The words still pierce my ears to this day.

  “Elverson! What are you doing in here with the door locke
d, fatty?” she would yell. “Why do you insist on playing with your fat like it’s some kind of imaginary friend? You should get out and go make some real friends. Or are you too sc-sc-sc-scared that they will make fun of you again? Why don’t you get out of my house before I beat that stutter out of you, you little pig!”

  I hated when she called me that. I know I’m fat. I know I stutter. I was born with it. I can’t help it! I clench my mattress in my hands until it hurts. I look out the window, and lightning streaks across the sky with the thunder hot on its trail. The windows rattle and the walls join in the chorus of reverberation. It appears the weather man was wrong again. Whatever the case may be, the lightning seems to have perfect timing because it snapped me back to the present. I suppose I should get up anyway, even if the sun isn’t quite up yet. I blink my eyes several times to adjust my sight. Right. My glasses. Where did I put them? Did I leave them on my night stand? Nope. Sigh. I’ll find them eventually. I always do. I bet I left them next to my keys.

  I get up out of bed, place my hands on my lower back and begin to slowly straighten my posture. The doctor says I should stretch more. Vigorous exercise would hinder me more than help me at this point. My back pops in protest in 15 spots. That feels a little better. I look down, and I attempt to touch my toes. Attempt is the key word here. I haven’t been able to touch them while standing in over 20 years. Honestly, I don’t care. I slowly swing my arms, my hips, and I gently bend my knees. That routine usually gets all of the pops and kinks out. Bone to bone arthritis is nothing to joke about; and I have it in both knees. Last X-ray that was done revealed almost no cartilage left between the knee caps. The doctor showed me the photos, and said, “You see all that floating white stuff that looks like chewed-up crab meat? That’s what remains of your cartilage.” Needless to say, I wasn’t too thrilled to hear that news, but it’s not like I have dreams of running a marathon one day. I walk with a shuffle and almost a wobble just to get to the coffee pot. Crap. I forgot to prep it again.

  This may be a good time to think up a good lesson to preach this evening for the service at church. And of course, every great lesson starts with a pot of coffee. Let the coffee search begin! Cabinet number one: success. Finding the coffee tin plus the filters inside is a bonus! I forgot I put those in there. But find them I did. All without my glasses…now that’s talent! Maybe there’s a lesson here. Searching and finding coffee is like gold? No. I don’t think that is in the bible. I’ll start with just the searching part. That seems to be a common field of interest nowadays. People are always searching for something. I wish they would search their way into my church. Provided they don’t fall asleep from the other priests, they’ll be just fine. Ok. Coffee is on. Where are my glasses? In my half-awake haze, I can see my mother out of the corner of my eye. She screams at me, “If you weren’t so fat, you might be able to see your toes once in a while! Oh, and your glasses are by your feeding trough at the table you stupid pig!”

  A tear runs down my face as I scream at the coffee, “Hurry up already, y-y-y-you st-st-st-stupid p-p-p-piece of j-j-j-junk!” I want these visions, memories, whatever they are to go away. Coffee does the trick. It makes me awake enough to blot them out. Searching. Right. Where was I? I need to get dressed. I need to distract myself from thinking about my mother. Why is it so bad today? Why can’t I control this? It’s never been like this before. I walk into my room, and I pause to look out the window again. Down on the streets below, there are people literally crawling through the torrential downpour in an attempt to make it home safely in their drunken stupor.

  This town of Los Pobres is what I call home. As much as I hate it here, I don’t feel like leaving. It’s such a long drive across the desert just to get to the next closest form of population; the city of Los Ricos. I am literally on the backside of the desert with no hope in sight. It’s hot here. It hardly ever rains, and when it does it floods certain areas of the town. All we have to offer are bars, strip clubs, and pawn shops. Granted there are the occasional fast food restaurants, but aside from the Catholic church I am on staff at that’s really about it. Bleak, boring, and almost in ruins is how I would describe my town. In a way, it kind of reminds me of a hangout for bandits that you would find in your typical western movie. Instead of horses, there are cars. Instead of drunken cowboys crawling on hands and knees from the saloon, there are punks with wild haircuts stumbling and vomiting back to their apartments. Some are drunk, while others are so wrapped up in their self-absorbed world of drugs that they wander the streets looking for that “next hit”.

  It is the same thing every Saturday.

  I shake my head and shuffle to my closet. Lo and behold, there is a clean uniform. That’s a good thing. A speck of light to my day. It’s the little things in life that count. If finding a clean uniform in my closet so I don’t become the stinky fat priest instead of just the fat priest does the trick; I’ll take it. I need to leave a note or something to remind me to do laundry when I get home. Notes seem to work a lot better for me than screaming. My mother was always a huge fan of screaming.

  In front of her friends, and in church, my mother always had the best manners. However, once we were alone, she would go to her pantry and pull out a one-gallon jug of homemade alcohol. She used to turn the jug up on end, and guzzle about half of it down before putting the cork back in it and placing it back in the pantry. She would stagger to her favorite chair in the living room. Back when I was a child, I thought she was hurt because of her funny walk. Looking back, I know that she was simply intoxicated…heavily. That chair is where she used to bark all of her orders at me when I was growing up. Watching her shows, she would become bitter, jealous, and hostile after seeing the families on television. “Real life is never like it is on TV, Elverson. NEVER! These families stay together. These families are happy. These families love each other and always work out their situations! And what do I get stuck with? An empty apartment that I can barely afford since your worthless father left us! Apparently, stripper poles were more enticing. FINE! Don’t you ever get married, piggy. Do you hear me? So, help me, you better not end up like your father, or I will KILL YOU!” she screamed at me.

  My knees try to dig tunnels through my chest. “M-m-make it st-st-st-stop. P-p-please!” I clench my hands around my ears as if that will drown out my mother’s voice. It seems like every time I wake up, I hear her voice. The painful thoughts are only interrupted this morning by the need to rush to the bathroom because the prune juice from the night prior has run its course. Boy, getting old is pretty rough. After I flush and wash my hands I see the painful sight of a tired, pudgy old man staring back at me in the medicine cabinet mirror. The medicine cabinet…

  My meds!

  I didn’t take my medication this morning. That sudden drop to the floor was a stupid decision, because my knees are throbbing now. Adrenaline doesn’t stick around as long as it used to. My legs are now starting to tremble under my weight, because my knees are protesting their current state. But I have to take my meds! It’s not too late. It’s only been a few minutes. Bracing myself on the edge of the sink, I throw the medicine cabinet door open and it clangs off of the wall and partly swings back to its origin. Half of a bottle remains. I breathe a sigh of relief because I thought I was out or close to a refill. I take the two horse-sized pills with some water cupped in one hand from the faucet. Swallow. Good. Wait. I listen. There it goes. Mother’s voice begins to muffle, and then finally fades out. She is gone for the day. Looks like I need to leave another note. I think I will put it on the mirror. Would I remember to look at it though? We shall see. I close the medicine cabinet and stop just as the magnets click together. My mother’s voice may be gone, but as I stare at myself in the mirror, the same bald, fat, and wrinkled man is there. That’s a pitiful combination. My eyes are bloodshot from crying recently, and I have sweat beading in the folds of wrinkles on my face. My eyebrows have wiry grey hairs that seem to have a mind of their own beyond the help of hair gel. As I sniffle, a cle
ar spot of mucus retreats back into my nose by way of my nose hairs that refuse to stay in their nostrils. My ears are slightly cauliflowery from when my mom would box my ears as a boy for not listening to her. The lobes tend to dangle a bit, too. You know, I think I have more hair in my eyebrows, nose, and ears than I do on my actual head! The only things up there besides skin are random sun spots. Sighing deeply, I let my hand drop back to its side. I am a pathetic, ugly old man, and I still have to go to work in this pitiful world. I might as well go get dressed.

  I go back to my closet, grab the clean outfit, and put it on. Uh oh. It’s a little snug. Thankfully I wear a robe over this. I’ll have to go get a larger size on Monday. Maybe if I tuck in my gut a little bit… I inhale sharply. Now all I have to do is get…the zipper…up. It zips. I exhale, and the seam bursts out of the back in the seat of my pants. That’s just great. I wonder what the expression would be on the alteration lady’s face when I show her this one. I chuckle. I can hear her now, “What you do now to pants? You no fit? Why not?” She knows why. I am a horrible diet follower.

  I would do really well a few days. I would eat nothing but fruits, veggies, and some oatmeal. It happens somewhere right around the evening of the third day that my tummy growls in protest. So, I would answer the call. I would go down the street to the convenience store, and restock on my pizza rolls and hot pockets collection. I love those things: instant pizza flavor all in less than five minutes; such a beautiful invention. I don’t have to worry about making a fool out of myself by trying to order delivery over the phone. And I don’t have to wait the excruciating 30 minutes for the delivery man to find my apartment. On my most recent trip to the store, the Twinkies were on clearance. I couldn’t pass them by, and I didn’t want to leave the other boxes without their shelf-mate. They would miss him. So, I just had to buy them all. So, it’s a win-win situation. The store clerk wanted to sell them all, and I just happen to be hungry. It’s a done deal.