Category: Fiction Factor

The pounding on the front door was relentless, but Dr. Jasmine Davis was in no rush to open it. She was quite used to the routine by now, and knew the two military men would wait for her to let them in, regardless of how long she took.

She rose from the burnt orange Chesterfield sofa, cracked her neck, and slowly made her way to the door, unlatching the chain lock and greeting the stone-faced visitors.

“Hello, fellas,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d pay me an unfriendly visit.”

The youngish men bore the branding of the Empire of Freedom on their brown uniforms, and they were part of the patrol that worked Sector HA-One, a southeastern geographical area of the continent.

“We’re here to enforce compliance,” said the tallest of the two, whose name tag read “Reed.”

“Of course,” she said. “Time to make sure everyone is doing their part to support the Empire. Nothing screams ‘Freedom!’ like forced patriotism … am I right?”

She stepped away from the entrance and allowed Reed and the other soldier, Markum, to enter her sparsely decorated living room.

“It says here that you are Davis, Jasmine, age 38, black female, doctorate degree, university instructor with a specialization in world history, ID number 4151947,” Markum read from a small red notebook. “Is that correct?”

“Everything is correct except for the ID,” she said. “That’s what the Empire tagged me with, and I don’t recognize it because I’m a person, not a number. So, you can go ahead and mark me as non-compliant there. I’m not gonna wear the bracelet. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

Markum made a check with a small pencil.

“According to our notes, in the past six months you have been in violation of the Empire Flag Display Act three times, did not participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly last year, and there have been reports that during some of your classes you have taught prohibited subject matter as defined in the Empire Freedom Bill of Facts. How do you answer these charges?

Dr. Davis eased back over to her couch and sat down.

“Hmmm … how do I answer these charges? I answer them as I always answer them. I don’t own an Empire flag. If I did, I wouldn’t fly it. I don’t participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly because if I have to participate in the Empire Freedom Appreciation Day Assembly, I’m not free. And as for banned subject matter, not everyone is afraid of knowledge. Fortunately, there are people who want to learn what the Empire won’t teach, whether you or anyone else in the Empire likes it or not.”

Dr. Davis got up, walked over to a table near the front door, and picked up stacks of paper.

“See these? These are all citations you people have written me for various ‘offenses,’” she explained. “I can either pay the penalty, or go to one of your luxurious Reform Camps. Or – and this is the option I’ve chosen – I can do none of the above.”

Dr. Davis dropped the citations back on the table.

“Dr. Davis,” Reed said. “There were two members of our patrol who came here a couple of weeks ago and never reported back to base. Would you know anything about that, by any chance?”

“You guys are always coming here,” she said. “What you do after you leave is none of my concern. Why don’t you try calling them.”

A hallway off of the living room was bare except for a small blackboard attached to the wall. Dr. Davis walked to it and grabbed a piece of chalk.

“I need to remind myself about the lesson plan for tomorrow,” she said. “Excuse me.”

In large capital letters, she wrote “RED TAILS.”

Markum grinned, and after taking the chalk from Dr. Davis, he wrote, “SPIT FIRE.”

In another time – and another country – those phrases were associated with the Tuskegee Airman, African-American military pilots who fought in World War II.

Today, they are passwords used by those attempting to thwart World War III.

She went back to the living room, lifted up the green area rug, and revealed a hatch. Once opened, concrete steps led to a massive underground facility.

Dr. Davis walked down first, followed by Markum and then Reed, who closed the trapdoor behind him.

The two “missing” patrol members from the last visit was there, along with several other soldiers and civilians. Some were manning computers at an elaborate control center, others were loading supplies onto electric carts, and still more were working feverishly to extend a tunnel system, which was already several miles long.

“Glad to see we have two more for the fight,” Dr. Davis said, shaking the hands of her two newest recruits.

“Welcome Mr. Fitzgerald … please take a seat.”

The office of Marvin Gladwater was small but opulent. High end, antique artwork from the 21^st century adorned the pastel yellow walls and the jet black table and chairs – anchoring the center of the room – were so shiny they practically glowed. Durwood Fitzgerald eased into the seat opposite Gladwater.

“So, Mr. Fitzgerald, how did you hear about Afterlife Adventures?”

Science had made monumental advancements since World Cyber War II, and by the year 2345, a company called Afterlife Adventures, Inc., discovered that a bridge between death and “post-mortal life” did, in fact, exist. Every human life had a “Malleable Vestige,” or MV, after death, but only Afterlife Adventures, Inc., was able to contain it – and offer a vessel allowing it to exist in the world of the living.

“Well,” Fitzgerald began, “I was watching a Continental Omegaball League game on my holographic display cube and saw your commercial. It said you have several different options and I was just curious what those options are. I guess it just got me thinking about what my next move should be. You know … after I’m gone. So, you can actually put my MV into something that’s still alive, is that right?”

“Correct,” Gladwater said. “It’s a shared experience since you’ll be joining  a sentient being. You’ve seen those historical presentations featuring what were known as automobiles, haven’t you? Basically, the sentient being is the driver, but you’re along for the ride. We have different tiers, from some that are comparatively inexpensive to others that are – if I’m being honest – extremely pricey. But as you can imagine, jumping from one plane of existence to another and then back again is hardly cheap. Here are a few options for you to consider, based on how many Rhodium Chips you’ve kept in reserve.”

Gladwater snapped his finger and a 3D projection system appeared before Fitzgerald, allowing the potential client to get a brief synopsis of some of the more popular options. Among them were Afterlife Adventure Basic, Afterlife Adventure Plan B, Afterlife Adventure Silver, Afterlife Adventure Platinum, and Afterlife Adventure Ultimate.

“Wow, that Ultimate plan looks awesome,” Fitzerald said, pointing, “aren’t those famous people? I think I recognize one of those guys  … isn’t that Doofus McGoofington from the ‘Snort-Laugh Until You Break Wind Comedy Hour?’”

“Indeed. This is our most prestigious option. Some of the top divertissement performers on the planet are part of the Afterlife Adventure. Imagine sharing the consciousness of a retro rap artist like Phil A.O. Soul. Just last year a client joined him right as he was starting his ‘Damn, That’s A Big-Ass Cookie’ tour. What an experience that must’ve been! And another client’s MV was paired with award-winning thespian Ptolemy Heatherington. They got to be part of the popular horror series, ‘Don’t Be Afraid Of That Thing In The Mirror That You Think Could Be a Ghost But You Can’t Say For Sure Because You Just Woke Up And Have Been Sick.’ Of course, that costs 300 Rhodium Chips.”

Fitgerald audibly gasped.

“Good grief,” he said. “That’s way, way too rich for my blood. And, frankly Mr. Gladwell, I’m pretty sure most of these popular ones are out of my price range. But this basic plan … it’s just two Rhodium Chips, which seems like a heckuva deal. I’m a little confused, though. I just see a bunch of squirrels running around in a field. Would that mean you’d place my MV in, like, a park ranger or something.”

Gladwater smiled.

“Actually, we’d place you in a squirrel, Mr. Fitzgerald. Admittedly it’s not the sexiest option, but many people choose this and chances are if you decided to MV as a squirrel, you’re quite likely to meet someone you once knew. We have a testimonial from two MVs who dated during their Learning Pod work as teenagers, lost track of each other, died, and then became reacquainted as squirrels. They likely would’ve married had they not been squirrels who, of course, do not marry. They basically just do squirrel stuff.”

Fitzgerald pursed his lips.

“Hmmm,” he said. “The squirrel option doesn’t sound bad, but how long do they live in the wild – five, 10 years, tops? I’m almost inclined to just let my MV go wherever it goes naturally – the great beyond, or wherever. Then it won’t cost me anything.”

Fitgerald got up and extended his hand.

“Oh, well … thank you for your time, Mr. Gladwater,” he said. “I think for now I’ll pass. I might reconsider it later, though. I’ve always been fond of squirrels.”

“Before you go,” Gladwater said, “we do have a new, experimental option we’ve been workshopping. It’s called the Afterlife Adventure Politics Plan. We place your MV into a person who has held office in the Global Government Alliance for 25 or more years. It’s 10 Rhodium Chips.”

Fitzgerald shook his head.

“Well, like I said, I don’t even want to spend the two Rhodium Chips for the Basic Plan. I’m definitely not gonna spend 10.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Gladwater said. “We put 10 Rhodium Chips in your reserve. Basically, an MV is just a soul, and souls are barely discernable among the bulk of these career politicians. You’d be doing most of the driving yourself.”

The gold-colored stretch limousine carrying Reverend Fulton Grayson eased to the curb in front of the modest garden home, drawing prolonged gazes from the handful of people walking along the sidewalk.

The driver – conspicuous by his white suit, mirrored sunglasses and black tube earpiece – stepped out of the vehicle, walked toward the back and opened the door for Grayson.

Although prosperity ministers were common, this particular man of the custom-made cloth stood out. His yellow hair was always coiffed high, and his mouth seemed to be overflowing with pearly white teeth. And then there was his attire, which consisted of a silver, peak label tuxedo with a red, white and blue handkerchief stuffed in the suit pocket and accented by an oversized American flag lapel pin.

It was rare to see him away from his sprawling church – Prosper Cathedral in Boone, North Carolina – or unaccompanied by a politician who shared his fire-and-brimstone, “get it all and get it now” worldview. But this was the rarest of occasions, and one worthy of a road trip to Oxford, Mississippi.

Mr. Lou Devlin had pledged $10 million to Prosper Cathedral, and his only requirement was that the good reverend visit him in person to receive the money. Various bank statements sent to Grayson (as well as the detective work of the church’s private investigators) assured him that Devlin was on the up-and-up, so he agreed to give the generous follower a brief audience.

On a cool, clear Wednesday morning, Grayson walked up the steps to the front of the block shingled house and rang the doorbell.

Moments later, Devlin opened the door. The slight man had a whisp of jet black hair on his mostly bald head and was wearing a dark red bathrobe and brown slippers.

He looked like anything but a multimillionaire.

Grayson grabbed Devlin’s right hand with both of his and shook vigorously.

“Mr. Devlin, what a great pleasure it is to meet another fine servant of the Lord,” said the reverend. “You know, 1 Timothy 6:17 tells us, ‘Charge them that are rich in this world, that they be not high-minded, nor trust in uncertain riches, but in the living God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy.’ And this is exactly what you’re doing with this selfless tithe, Brother Lou.”

The driver was standing in the doorway and Grayson motioned him back toward the limo, whispering, “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

“Please, have a seat,” Devlin said, pointing to a rocking chair next to a small sofa in the living room. “I’ll get your money presently. Before that, though, I just wanted to ask you a question.”

Grayson smiled politely and looked around.

“Absolutely. And I must say, Brother Lou, for a man of means you seem to live modestly. Don’t get me wrong, this is a lovely house, I’m just a bit surprised.”

Devlin laughed.

“Honestly, I never really needed much in the way of ‘things.’ A roof to keep the rain off, a bed to sleep in, a bowl to eat from …everything else is mostly clutter. And, I don’t spend a lot of time in this particular place anyway. I travel all over the world.”

Grayson cleared his throat.

“Well, I know what it’s like to have a busy travel schedule. Anyway, I’m sure you have things to do, and I need to get back to Boone and prepare for our ‘Million Prayers for a Million Dollars’ crusade, so if we could go ahead and complete our transaction I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Devlin said. “Just that question though. Do you remember Millie Banks?”

Grayson shook his head.

“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Is there a reason I should know her?”

Devlin sat down.

“It was about, oh, 40 years ago,” he explained. “You were going through your faith healing phase and you held a tent revival in Marshall, North Carolina. Millie was just a little girl – poor as dirt – but she managed to scrape together seven dollars and 16 cents to give you if you could heal her grandma. And do you remember what you did, Brother Fulton? You snatched that money right out of her hand, patted her on her head, and told her everything was gonna be just fine. That by the time she got home, her dear ol’ granny would be sitting up and laughing. But that didn’t happen, did it Brother Fulton? Once Millie got home her grandma was already gone. And for the next 25 years, Millie kept writing you and asking you why you didn’t help her granny. But you didn’t answer, because you didn’t care. You already had your money and for people like you, all sales are final.”

Grayson’ face was red with anger, but he was also puzzled at how Devlin knew about what was – to him – a small and insignificant detail.

Devlin pulled a crumpled check out of his robe pocket, handed it to Grayson and pointed toward the door.

“You’ve got your money, so you can go now.”

Grayson glanced at the check, stared at Devlin and made a heavy-footed exit toward the door. When he opened it, his limo and driver were gone. In fact, the entire neighborhood was missing. All he could see was a dark landscape defined mostly by shadows. All he could feel was bitter cold. All he could hear were wails of despair.

“What the hell …” he muttered.

“What the hell, indeed, Brother Fulton,” said Devlin, whose eyes were now a glossy black. “Oh, and as you might have guessed, your limo never made it here. There was a terrible crash right outside Tupelo Regional Airport. Now, let me leave you with this … ‘Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you. Your riches are corrupted, and your garments are motheaten. Your gold and silver is cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. Ye have heaped treasure together for the last days.’ That’s James 5: 1-3.”

Devlin pushed Grayson out of the doorway and into the darkness.

“Like William Shakespeare wrote,” Devlin said as he was closing the door, “‘The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.’”