The Solution Page 3

  The creature leapt from the wall and swiped across Randal’s chest with its nails. The two tumbled and it got on top of him, pinning him down. There was no remorse or hesitation. Tetrax bit into Randal’s shoulder with its teeth. Blood sprayed as it chomped, swallowing Randal’s slippery redness down its numerous mouths. Worms from its body attempted to weave around Randal’s hands, trying to pull him inside Tetrax’s torso and he felt as helpless as a trapped mouse under a cat’s paw.

  Suddenly a white, blinding light flashed and Randal felt the weight of the creature release. Flashes of heat flew inches over Randal’s head and Tetrax roared and was immediately muted.

  Another wave of dizziness sucked him down and he went to sleep. There was nothing, the silence Randal had been waiting for, but it wouldn’t last long.

  When Randal came to, he was looking through a dirty window and riding in the backseat of a car. He saw silvery and grey buildings zipping by. Randal grunted. He wanted to ask where he was but when he moved his mouth a pang in his neck silenced him. His eyes were already bruising and his face was a swollen mess, his shoulder throbbing.

  He couldn’t at first make out whether the driver was male or female.

  “Hi,” the driver said. It was a woman. Before Randal found the strength to respond, all sounds of normality faded and were replaced with maniacal chuckles and hums induced by pain and blood loss, causing catalepsy. Randal became aware of nothing pleasant as he fell back into a stinging sleep.

  * * *

  Elizabeth woke up at around six o’clock in the morning, eyes wide open. In front of her were the mirrored angel figurine on the bureau and her vacant reflection in the vanity, vacant because she held no facial expression. The lifeless angel seemed to stare back at her, and Elizabeth locked eyes on it for a moment. Mr. Spires sat in his chair and the computer screen glowed. Two new men stood beside Mr. Spires, looking at Elizabeth blankly. One was a short, stout man wearing a cashmere sweater, grey slacks and black, shiny dress shoes. The other was a bigger man in a suit called Mix. They were Solution operatives, she knew. Something was definitely up. Elizabeth was unaware that overnight Mr. Spires had run diagnostics, deduced formulae, and manifested an aspect of her subconscious which resulted in conclusions beyond Elizabeth’s knowledge. She looked at the operatives, then back to Mr. Spires.

  “Okay,” she curtly said, “did I do all right or what?”

  “Indeed. Have you heard of Inversion, Elizabeth?” Mr. Spires said.

  “No. I have no idea what that is.”

  “It’s the belief that some people draw energy from elsewhere. Rather, Inversion is the conversion of that energy from elsewhere into material form. The rationalization is simple, in that all life is symbiotic with the Ultimate Reality. The theory is that some people have more of it, whatever it exactly is. We call it the Ultimate Reality, those of us that . . . want to understand.”

  “I don’t quite.”

  “You will, but for now you’ll need to shower. We’re going to go for a ride.”

  “Where?”

  “To the City,” Mr. Spires said.

  “The City? Now?”

  “Yes.”

  Before Elizabeth got out of bed, she thought of her mother, and she silently mourned her as best she knew how. She wanted to cry, thinking that it might be the right thing to do, but she couldn’t—a shower would be wet and warm enough. Her chest tightened, she massaged, hoping she would not have a heart attack on the spot.

  Chapter Four

  The All

  Welcome to the All, Dr. Temple thought as the air became stained with historical scenes playing like a 3-D movie. These were moments recorded in time, and the act was made possible because the doctor shared a relationship with the All system—he implemented the All to tap into aspects of the Ultimate Reality, to learn what the universe, physical or incorporeal, had to offer. Dr. Temple’s latest pleasure was studying a Greek woman disrobing at an altar of Aphrodite. Libations of wine, from the men watching, poured onto the earth around her. Suddenly the floating images morphed into a different group of women and men being tortured during the Spanish Inquisition. A woman was chained to a splintered table, and had her belly cut wide open. A man's head was lopped off with a dull blade, so it took the headsman three good whacks.

  Then history evaporated into thin air within seconds. The doctor’s interests were not of the past but of the present. He was reminded of this when a transmission sounded and an image appeared on a screen in his mind. It was a member of the Solution Prime Council, a man called Glenn Wiseman.

  “Do you know how this happened with Mr. Markins?” Glenn Wiseman had a steady voice.

  “No.” Dr. Temple stood in a black suit and pale face, black clean-cut hair. He was a slender man with not much muscular tone, and wore a thick, heavy silver ring on his right index finger. There was a sense of something working in the man below the surface, like unseen engines.

  Dr. Temple was in a control room that was rather bland with the exception of the All’s manifold circuitry surrounding him on the walls. He was head of the entire All program; he was the operator commissioned by the Solution Prime Council—primarily by a member that no longer lived and who was considered a mystery and co-founder of the Solution itself. It had taken the doctor years of psychological preparation and neurological modifications to set at the hull of such an operation—Dr. Temple’s brain had been reconstructed and turned into a biomechanical marvel tuned directly into the All’s system.

  Glenn Wiseman said, “You experience the mind of the City, and you practically are the will of the City, Dr. Temple. What’s the problem?”

  The doctor did experience the mind of the City, and soon the All’s primary function would be nationwide Molecular Surveillance, meaning Dr. Temple would possess the capability to monitor the public through dust particles, oxygen, and anything with matter, even from within the public’s physical bodies. Dr. Temple would know everyone on the most intimate level.

  “Take a look,” Glenn Wiseman said.

  The doctor felt something of a pain and changed a channel in his mind to where he had monitored Randal Markins sitting in the alleyway last night. He had watched and listened from the time of the cerebral interference in Randal’s apartment to where Tetrax had almost killed and swallowed him whole in the alleyway. The corner of the doctor’s lips curved to a frown. It had been unfortunate he was forced to send Tetrax, one of actuality’s dirty little secrets, in the first place.

  What bothered Dr. Temple was the interruption of communications and how Randal escaped, obviously with help—more than likely of a man called Alex Treaty, who was the first person ever to vanish from the All’s scrutiny within the City’s limits. But that was at the beginning when the program was still primitive. And how is Randal Markins significant to anything whatsoever? There was nothing special about him, the doctor knew, until last night, when Randal’s mind sent out violent pulses into the All then blanked out like a burnt light bulb. Dr. Temple pondered further on Randal’s image. Then he willed the All to search for him and Treaty through a grid of the city, but could find no trace, no pulses of life or any heat signatures that would suggest Treaty could still be alive, or Randal for that matter—but they still live, the doctor believed.

  Glenn Wiseman said, “They have to be collected and studied in order to discern how Treaty bypassed the All’s network and hacked into Randal’s head, which was supposed to be impossible by now. Apparently it’s not. They don’t know what they’re doing, Dr. Temple. They can harm many people. Send the RMS if need be.”

  “I understand,” the doctor said.

  Glenn Wiseman faded out and suddenly the image in the doctor’s mind shifted to that of Elizabeth, Mr. Spires, and the two Solution operatives in a vehicle idling at the city gates awaiting access.

  “Interesting,” Dr. Temple said.

  ***

  The auxiliary power of the facility purred as it turned on, and an electric whine was followed by a door flying ope
n and Randal landing headfirst on the floor. A few clumps of congealed blood clung to his nostrils, and when he attempted to stand he fell. Still, he tried to gather his whereabouts. The navy blue carpet was torn in patches and wooden flooring showed under it in random areas. He looked at the wall which was covered with red and gold paisley wallpaper. He saw a ceiling fan and light that appeared to be from 1950s in the corner of his eyes, and an old cot beside an oak desk.

  Footsteps came from behind him, a sound he’d recently learned to be wary of. He was tired of the sound of approaching footsteps. Footsteps were too sneaky. Randal slowly rolled onto his back, tasting his own coppery blood, seeing two silhouettes standing in the doorway. His body was going haywire with pain as he said, “What did I do? What am I guilty of?”

  One silhouette said, “Guilty? Who knows? Probably by some people’s standards you are, but not by mine, man. My name’s Alex Treaty. This is Christopher M. And in case you’re wondering, I am the voice inside your head,” Alex said calmly.

  Both silhouettes stepped forward and Randal could see them better. He blinked at Alex then looked to Christopher M, who was a stocky man. He wore a navy blue jacket with white stripes running down the sleeve and had on jeans and sneakers. Alex wore an old, viridian knitted sweater, gray corduroys, and a white collared shirt. His graying hair fell close to his shoulders. He had a beard and bright blue eyes with crow’s feet under them. He appeared to be a frail man and reminded Randal of someone immersed in academia and wealth. An elite brain, some would say.

  “Where are my manners?” Alex said, “Christopher M, pick him up and place him on the cot. Give him pain killers.”

  Christopher M cut his eyes. He was the one who had accidently, he’d say, pushed Randal through the doorway.

  “Sorry,” Christopher M said. Then he lifted Randal up onto the cot, but at the moment Randal didn’t care where he’d end up laying. Everything hurt. Everywhere. It wasn’t only the pain from the attacks he endured; his body yearned for something terribly, though he couldn’t place what.

  After Christopher M situated Randal he revealed a syringe and injected him with a pain killer, which brought immediate alleviation. When he backed away, Randal moved his lips. At first no sound came out until he sighed and managed to say, “I have no idea what this is.”

  Alex said, “Hmm, I’ll make it simple. It wasn’t only me you’ve been hearing in your head, you see, because the Solution was in there, too. They were there first. We hacked the All’s network and we got lucky and found you, man. It’s a pretty Zen thing. We found you because you dreamed of someone. A girl with green eyes. Do you know her?”

  Randal closed his eyes. He recalled the dream. Apparently this dream started it all—this whole downward spiral. She did seem familiar to Randal, though. She looked like his first kiss. Elizabeth Reznick.

  “I don’t know,” Randal said.

  “Are you aware of what the All is?” Alex said, scratching his nose.

  “Not really. But I’ve heard rumors at work.”

  “I imagine, man. I imagine. But they’re more than rumors. I’ll cut to the chase and give you the skinny. You’ve been streaming the All, and you’ll be going through some pretty intense detoxification soon. Like a hard drug, man, except worse. See, you’ve been dependent on the All and you didn’t even know it. No one in the City knows it. We’ll provide you with medication and sustenance and hope you live. I have to be honest with you though, it’s going to hurt and it’s going to be strange.”

  The pain killer was already knocking him out and Randal started to slip under. Maybe he would find the oblivion he’d been looking for, after all. Moments later it was like Randal watched life on an old movie projector, but the film burned and pealed the pictures into black blooms before him. He was left with indistinct sketches of Alex and Christopher M, which soon faded to nothing.

  There was solace, for a while.

  ***

  The withdrawal symptoms were indeed both strange and agonizing. It was like an integral part of Randal’s body was being torn from his guts.

  The door griped when it closed, or opened, and Randal had no idea who had just left the room or if someone entered. More than likely it had been one of his saviors, or captors—who knew at this point.

  Time passed quickly, breaking into hazy and distorted segments.

  He opened his eyes again, rather, eyes within eyes. Because, each time he shut one eye another seemed to open. One moment lights stared down at him. Then so did darkness and pain’s smile. When he got back to sleep another figurative lens opened to show him nightmares—nightmares he could not quite rationalize or form into coherent images as they played out in front of him. Randal saw shimmering shapes and each was drawn in such a geometrical fashion that he could not understand their structures, as if they had come from somewhere else beyond comprehension and were too large for his mind. Suddenly these shapes morphed into warm blankets, embracing him paternally. The comfort was disturbing because comfort itself had become a contrast to his life lately, but he would take it, though knowing it would soon flee.

  Then Randal watched Alex Treaty look down on him with curious blue eyes. He was unsure if Alex was a phantasm as Alex’s lips began to make funny motions. He was trying to speak, Randal gathered.

  Alex said, “You’re living. It may seem like you’re in Hades, but you’re alive, man. This is splendid stuff, you understand.”

  “Get … away from … me.”

  “Nice,” Alex said wittily. “You’ll be fine. You have to be. There’s an overabundance of stuff to learn.”

  Not even coming close to striking anything, Randal threw a wild punch into the air. He missed Alex by a foot. It was the first time, even since he was a child, that he’d ever done such a thing. The Dysfunctions Anger and Rage stormed inside him. Nodding and grinning, Alex left the room as silently as he had arrived.

  Shortly after Alex’s exit Randal daydreamed about driving a car into the side of a building and smashing his skull in. Randal laughed at the absurdity, then the laugh grew into a guffaw, and the guffaw turned into a roar. Then, eventually, the roar silenced and Randal fell asleep.

  Time slipped away rapidly. Randal wasn’t sure how much had gone by the next moment he woke, but it was like a slow, meditative moment when he did. He looked at the paisley wallpaper, then lights, then the blue carpet. They were all there. Vividly. He was lucid, at least more so than he’d been in a while. It could have been a week or maybe three that slipped by. He couldn’t be sure, but there was no yearning for that drug. Did Alex tell him he was withdrawing from the All? Nevertheless, everything was as close to proper as proper could be considering the circumstances.

  Randal’s body and mind moved and processed better, but he’d bet he looked a lot worse than he ever had before. He tossed the white sheets off and stood up, seeing he had healed well when he scanned his body. The bruises were fading, cuts on his chest were cleaned, and his neck or his head didn’t ache. His stomach growled like a monster. He looked at his wrist, noticing a scar where there once was not. He examined, and guided his index finger over the scar, discovering his tracer chip had been surgically removed.

  “What the hell?” Randal muttered.

  On the oak desk there was a plate of T-bone steak, potatoes and broccoli waiting for him along with a tall glass of iced sweet tea. Christopher M walked into the doorway, peering at him with a mixed look of disgust and pity.

  You better?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should be. You’ve been doing this for three weeks. That’s plenty long. We took the chip out of your wrist. You didn’t feel anything, and if you did you sure don’t damn remember it, do you? No. Anyway, there’s some food. Eat it. It’s warm, just cooked. No, we didn’t poison it. It’s ok but I don’t know why their wasting steak on you, but whatever. Then Alex wants to see you.”

  “I feel weak,” Randal said.

  “Yeah you’re not the smartest, huh. Put some calories
in your body. You’ll be all right. It’s warm. Suck it up.”

  Christopher M extended an arm to shake Randal’s, but Randal already had an aversion to the stocky man—it could have been his lopsided smirk or sardonic intonations, and Randal simply didn’t even know if he could trust these people. There was a positive, though, or it had the potential to be positive; Randal wasn’t certain yet. It could go either way. This whole ordeal would be the best or worst that had ever happened to him—Randal realized a part of him seemed reprogrammed. He felt things, such as Dysfunction Anger, Dysfunction Distrust, Dysfunction after Dysfunction more than he ever had with potency almost more alive than the room he stood in.

  “What’s going to happen?” Randal said.

  “Holy! You’ll starve if you don’t eat, brother. That’s what’ll happen. I’ll be back in a few. Hurry up. Take your time. I don’t care. Let’s just make sure you get to Alex.”

  Christopher M left. Randal sat down then ate and drank. The flavors, while on an ordinary day would have been bland, Randal found them to be phenomenal. He finished the whole plate by the time Christopher M came back in, and his stomach felt like it was going to pop it was so tight and full. There was a Function—a Function which, Randal recalled in a Solution doctrine not to become fanatical of—called Joy. Randal felt Joy at a full belly. And Joy there torture no longer scoured his veins any longer.

  “Let’s boogie,” Christopher M said.

  Randal followed him out of the room and they walked down a corridor. Randal couldn’t help but to notice the cleanliness of the place, considering. He conjectured it to be an abandoned hotel or office building due to the plain, non-offensive paintjob and dirty, faux marble floor which was rather mangled in areas. Also the place smelled deserted and there was a hint of fustiness lingering but covered with a fresh lavender scent. The bottom line, Randal deduced, was that the facility was a dump that someone attempted to make pretty. The dump’s exact proximity within the City, if in the City at all, he was clueless and wasn’t sure it mattered. What was he going to do, realistically, he wondered, escape?