The Solution

  The Solution

  T.A. Williams

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright 2013 T.A. Williams

  Cover Art Designed and Copyrighted by T.A. Williams

  Published by Skeleton Tree Press

  Digital Edition

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  Skeleton Tree

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced, posted, printed or made publically available without consent of author or publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - An Odd Dream, Birthday

  Chapter Two - Porcelain Light on a Dying Sun

  Chapter Three - Randal Markins, Lupercalia, Ultimate Reality

  Chapter Four - The All

  Chapter Five - Expansion

  Chapter Six - Slippery Minds

  Chapter Seven - Cosmic Tears

  Chapter Eight - The Omni-party

  Chapter One

  An Odd Dream, Birthday

  Flesh severs from bone and a green-eyed girl cries a black flood, a flood of such devastating capacity it could cover the world …

  In her pink smiling monkey pajamas, she stands on a great body of blackness, the water rippling beneath her feet. She swipes her arm across her cheek, surprised to find her hand covered in red. She inspects the blood carefully, but she has no idea how she was cut. But that isn’t the worst of her problems. She begins to sink, first to her knees then to her waist. The water has no temperature, like a touch of nothingness.

  Soon she falls under, into the liquid darkness, descending for what seems like forever, being pulled down by a gripping, otherworldly current. The water becomes shockingly cold. She twists and tumbles, feeling pressure on her lungs build, beginning to crush them. Deeper, farther and farther down, as she drowns—as if this can get any worse, the thought crosses her mind—from the blackness an onslaught of charred hands reach and grope, tearing her body to pulpy ribbons.

  There is a moment of stillness, the absence of all sound, until blood ascends in violent whorls, spreading, mixing with the tears to create more floods and oceans, lakes, and her veins the rivers. Her dismemberments form continents, and her mind creates the Nature of All Things. Big fish eat small fish. Big corporation consumes small business, government consumes big corporation. Obese man eats donut and watches television. Television eats obese man. In one last sweeping exhalation, her breath becomes the atmosphere.

  Her name is Elizabeth. She is the doorway to the Ultimate Reality.

  ***

  “Damn,” Elizabeth shot up in bed, keeping her eyes shut because she was afraid of what she might see. Her thoughts jumbled helter-skelter, sweat clung to her brow, and her auburn hair was a sticky mess. She had no idea why she would have such a dream, except for the world was messed up—her world was messed up. She thought, maybe it was a sort of silly allegorized psyche soup parading its nonsensical ingredients, as can happen at times. As Dr. Reverence always said, Elizabeth recalled, ‘One is prone to cling to a reflection of madness, only so they can wallow in their own likeness.’

  Attempting to gather her wits and her breath, Elizabeth inhaled for the first time in what felt like a minute. She opened her eyes and a spot of sunshine, coming through the slits in the blinds, jabbed at her pupils.

  Her room was furnished with a twin bed, two bureaus—one that had an old vanity mirror (owned by her late grandmother before the world cracked). This was the same room she had lived in since the age of six, where she once played with a hand-me-down Rainbow Bright, experienced her first kiss at age eleven, which proved horrifying. The kisser’s bottom lip, Randal Markins, had got caught in her braces. In panic he jerked his head back and a chunk of flesh ripped out. He had moved away years ago, but she wasn’t sure where. He was her first experience with love.

  The walls in her room were painted pink then, but now they were purple. Most of her time within these walls was spent listening to music and keeping her mind occupied. She was twenty-four now, the house was hers, and she was near alone with the exception of her mother who was not often up for company.

  Elizabeth groaned. Letting the memory of her dream slip away, she stretched like a cat and a pleasant rush slid through her head. Suddenly she grew sleepier than before, and her eyelids drooped as the taunt pulled her back under the down comforter. She could have dreamed again of a much better, calmer place, even though she knew she had chores to start this morning, and she had to check on her mother.

  At 8:00 AM Elizabeth woke again, and the air seemed stained with rainbows until she rubbed her eyes and they adjusted properly. She reached over to her nightstand, picking up her smart phone and looking for any missed calls. Of course, there were no missed calls. She scrolled to an app and turned on Pandora, playing some music lowly.

  ***

  After Elizabeth showered she stood naked under the canned lights and on the old black and white tile, smelling of violets. She cleared the layer of condensation off the mirror then covered the circles under her eyes with honey-beige concealer. She got dressed. She wore jeans, black knee-high leather boots, pink socks, and a teal three-quarter length T-shirt with a black cardigan over it. Before leaving the house, she vaguely wondered where her mind might go if it weren’t for the little pleasantries life still allotted.

  Elizabeth walked outside into a bright February day, the cold and fresh breeze fumbling over her cheeks. While the sun may have spread a cheerful hue, most of the houses in the neighborhood stood abandoned or foreclosed. Many of the yards were overgrown, the grass dried and dead from winter. She saw children’s toys and wind-beaten battery powered trucks on the lawns and dead potted plants on porches. Many families had fled during the State of Chaos if they weren’t killed or unexplainably vanished, when disease ran rampant, jobs dwindled, and violence spread. The old government attempted to suppress the disorder. Their efforts failed. Then the Solution arose from the depths of global networks, utilizing their strange war machines and snuffing the mayhem. These strange, bipedal marvels were called the RMS. Elizabeth had never seen an RMS (Robotic Military Sentry) in person, but she had watched a plethora of live footage and reports on TV. No one had ever witnessed the odd technology before, nor did they know it could exist; the RMS were armed with nightmares, it seemed.

  Elizabeth kept trekking, observing the near derelict neighborhood. She sighed, recalling a time when the Blue Bear ice cream truck would play its drippy and tuneless music. Elizabeth had found it eerie, yet the music possessed the ability to make her happy all the same, to reach in and grab her veins as though she were a stringed musical instrument. The neighborhood had kids flocking then. Things were normal, but it seemed the last few years her life stumbled toward a monstrous mouth that would swallow her whole. She wanted college, to work once again at Cool Keith’s Coffee. But alas, it hadn’t happened.

  A sudden heavy gust of cold wind forced Elizabeth to turn her head down. Her eyes watered. When she looked back up the street, she saw a slim figure in the distance silhouetted by the morning sun. As the figure got closer it became less obscure, forming into one of the last remaining neighborhood men—she didn’t know his name before, and she refused to know him now. His face was blotted by shadow but she could tell he was in a hurry as he jogged to a yard where an old and withered dogwood tree. He opened the door and went inside the home. Someone was dying, she was certain. Soon the teeth of disease would crush and swallow.

  Elizabeth reserved a numb awareness of death, because she had witnessed enough already. The dysfunction of Grief no longer belonged to her.

/>   She walked an eighth of a mile down her street which led her to the main road. A few stores remained open for business, but many had shut down or were rundown. The businesses that survived appeared rather immaculate and cleanly—the shelves were stocked and supplies shipped aplenty. Walking another five minutes, she eventually entered a small convenient store called The Orange Market between two empty and dark-looking buildings that used to be banks. Per requirement of the Solution a sign posted over the pristine glass entrance door read, ABSOLUTELY NO CASH, in bold red letters, for fear of the Cash Disease, which had started on cash and wiped out millions—the beginning of the State of Chaos, also known as the Disintegration.

  She got a box of hot chocolate, loaf of bread, peanut butter, one banana, pink Snowballs, gallon of milk, a tomato and swiped her wrist, which had a tracer chip implanted just under the skin, and a beep sounded off. She had purchased. Mr. Smith, a short portly old clerk behind the counter wore a collared shirt, slacks and black dress shoes. His hair was white, and his eyes were pale blue.

  He smiled, saying “Little chilly outside, but it’ll do. I’m glad winter’s coming to a close soon. Another month or two.”

  “I suppose. But I like winter,” Elizabeth said.

  “You like winter? Funny a woman says that. Y’all used to love summer, hopping round in your bikinis like bunnies. Sun tannin', ya' know. I can understand the change, though.” Then Mr. Smith cocked his head to the side for a moment, then peered directly at her, solemnly. “I remember. In one respect I feel fortunate it—the Disintegration, you know—didn’t happen during winter. In another way, I kinda’ wish it did.”

  Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow and Elizabeth understood he didn’t need to say anything else. They both had smelled the baking rot and war in the summer heat. The stench was like spoiled milk and bad meat and it blew in with the wind from miles away. She didn’t really care for anything further to be said about it. Not many people did. But sometimes (most times) they talked about it regardless.

  Elizabeth said, “The Disintegration isn’t over for all of us.”

  “Hmm, but we know who to thank, don’t we, that it’s not worse? Because it’s over for most.”

  Elizabeth said, “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “You’re lucky. The other deserted neighborhoods are getting demolished right and left. Solution officials plan to move people closer to the City, which means your neighborhood will be preserved and occupied. We’re close. Don’t you feel it, though? The pull to the City? Like some sort of calling.”

  Elizabeth shook her head yes, because she couldn’t deny that she did. She had an urge to go. There wouldn’t be much left here after her mother passed regardless if people would be arriving soon or not. And even if she felt the urge to go, she doubted she ever would or that she genuinely wanted to. She didn’t.

  “Something’s happened to, well, reality, all right,” Mr. Smith said.

  Elizabeth agreed and said to herself that it’s gone insane, that reality itself seems to be diseased or cracked open.

  Mr. Smith continued, “And I can feel something else happening as we speak. I feel it down to my marrow, singing like a choir. There’s a feeling just below the surface, ya' know, something of a power permeating us. Do you ever get that?”

  “No.”

  "Oh, it's strong. It's real strong." Mr. Smith’s eyes narrowed. He reached a hand into his shirt pocket but discovered what he looked for wasn’t there. “No damned cigarettes. Still can’t accept it, but Dr. Reverence frowns on them so I guess I should, too. But I need one so bad, I dream of smoking when I sleep. Gotta’ have something to keep me from going loony as a mongoose on crack. Dr. Reverence is a good woman.”

  Elizabeth deemed Mr. Smith’s dysfunction Unfortunately Positive.

  Mr. Smith put his hands to his sides and squeezed the fabric of his slacks, then reached to the counter snatching and unraveling a piece of sugar-free fruit-flavored candy. He popped it in his mouth.

  "Anyway, not much new construction will happen, huh. How’s your mother?” the old man said, “She’s one of that last with, you know, Cash Disease. She’s gotta’ be pretty damned close. I’m sorry.”

  “I’d imagine you are,” she said.

  Chapter Two

  Porcelain Light on a Dying Sun

  On the mantle above the gas fireplace sat a few knick-knacks, an old broken hunting rifle, framed pictures of Elizabeth’s little brother, her mother, and her blue-collared bearded father. A picture of the four of them together, taken on the Lightning Fields in New Mexico when they had stopped there on vacation, stood out the most. Webs of purple painted the sky behind their smiles.

  Both brother and father were deceased now. Her father died a year and a half ago, during the most violent stage of the State of Chaos. He was discreetly invited to pick vegetables from a friend’s farm. Thieves and plunderers shot him. A half year ago her little brother, Danny, was killed by an unexpected factor. His kidneys had failed him during sleep. Her mother had contracted the Cash Disease and was still suffering.

  Holding a glass of water and four white pills, Elizabeth stood looking at the pictures until she realized what she had to do and headed in that direction. When she opened the master bedroom door the hinges creaked. She reluctantly went into the dark room and didn’t dare let the door close behind her. The curtains were closed, blocking the daylight. After she managed to flip on the light switch, the ceiling bulb flashed and burned out. Elizabeth equated it to a dying sun. And somewhere in the far reaches of black space, she imagined undulated waves of dispersing fire, and she knew that it was probably true; a sun was dying somewhere in the universe.

  “Great,” she muttered.

  Mother was worse today, she discerned by the smell. Elizabeth loathed being in here, but she felt the remote sense of Function Love as well. The room confused her, and it had for a year now. She half-believed this place managed to murder light.

  She moved as taut as a tightrope. She could make out, as her eyes adjusted, the IV stand placed next to the bed, the plastic shine of morphine and saline drips. She stepped closer, nearing her mother’s silhouette, thankful her countenance remained behind shadow. She didn’t want to view her. When Anne was healthy and working, she had contracted the Cash Disease from handling money at the bank. Some 100-million others had contracted the disease within months.

  “Mom, you ready? I'm going to turn on the nightstand lamp.”

  There was no answer, only breathing. No longer awaiting Anne's consent Elizabeth flipped the lamp switch, causing Anne’s pupils to contract as a migraine squirmed from the front to the back of her head. She moaned like a ghoul, and Elizabeth believed for a moment that maybe there was reason the room suffocated light, after all. Maybe death would be better—maybe it called. For a brief moment she considered euthanizing her and wondered why the Solution hadn’t ever done so.

  Elizabeth extended the glass and pills. She wanted to somehow blot out actuality. Anne's skin was mottled with pustules, a few of which would erratically burst and spit buttery blood. From her neck downward random areas of flesh were raked with gangrene. She lived in an uncanny state, slowly devolving into a slab of busted organic machinery.

  Elizabeth knew giving Anne medicine was quite useless, but it was prescribed by the appointed Solution physician. At least someone had been making an effort. She set the water and pills on the nightstand and reached to the IV drips and upped the dosage for the morphine. There was no cure except for curing the pain because the disease was no longer contagious. And a year ago the Solution released a communiqué informing the public of how the Cash Disease worked. ‘The exogenous antigens enter the skin similar to an everyday infection and naturally stimulate a physical response. The infection then destroys all phagocytes and natural fighter cells immediately. The lymphocytes clone infectious cells. These cling to red blood cells and flow to the heart, destroying the aortic valves . . . ’ and blah-blah-blah. Something attacked the medulla oblongata. Something proceeded to
the forebrain and something turned her into a fading automaton, Elizabeth thought. No, there was no cure.

  Just then a glint of dim light caught the corner of her eye. On the nightstand sat a mirrored angel figurine she had bought for Anne years ago. Anne had disliked the angel, thought it tacky however kept the gift because Elizabeth gave it to her.

  Then it felt like the butterflies in her stomach had razor-tipped wings as she stared at her mother, lying in a gross tranquility. But she swallowed the feeling, covering it up deep within.

  Following a quick spasm there were no suggestions of life. Elizabeth observed Anne’s ribcage sinking. Then the air in the room seemed to sit still and sunshine attempted to reach through the curtains, bringing an odd realization to Elizabeth. She learned through her past studies that a number of events are uncontrollable, but this is ridiculous. She tossed ideas to formulate a course of action, what in particular to feel (but she could feel nothing), but the ABCs of her thought process became muddled crosswords leaving her with blanks.

  Suddenly, in the living room a chipper melody rang as the plasma television cut on, displaying Dr. Reverence. Ah, the Solution. They know. Of course they know! Elizabeth left the room, her mother’s body, and went to the living room where the television was.

  Dr. Reverence had the appearance of a firm sort of woman, adorning shoulder-length black hair, side-swept bangs, and turquoise eyes expressing such a persuasive conviction that Elizabeth hardly ever allowed herself to miss a word. “Miss Elizabeth Faye Reznick, I’m sorry for your loss. The Solution empathizes with you. We know the wounds of loss can run to weighty levels, but I assure you there is an existence much more profound awaiting you.”

  She assured Elizabeth a Solution Consulate would see her shortly, then Dr. Reverence commenced a psychotherapy session. Fifties of times before, Elizabeth had listened to the doctor expound. She even remembered as far back when Dr. Reverence first appeared to the public. She began originally during the State of Chaos. She spoke as a voice of reason during unreasonable times.