Marshall, Chapter 3

*copyrighted material*

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    Eight months and eight weeks before Menoetes’ launching. A glacial, cold brume slithered from behind his chair, creeping into the bare of his bones. He couldn’t do anything but exist. Seemingly unalerted, but his eyes darted everywhere in fear, still and mute. The rocking chair brought him out and into the light coming from the only, yet fake, window of the room, a television screen that showed the calm scene of pine trees and a mountain that had been perfectly framed behind the window fitting. A single cabin room made out of the craggiest wood imaginable, and that's what it was an imagined place. He’d been here many times before. His feet hurt from the splinters as he couldn’t stop himself from rocking back and forth. His mind was a broken record. Repeating a list of words in order. Rapture. Collision. Stevee. Silicon. Toggle. Antarctica. 

    He could feel Marshall’s anger growing. Watching him in absolute silence from out the window. “Elias, why do you reject me like this? Who is it? Who is it that won’t let me in anymore?” But Marshall’s voice was deceivingly mellow to the regular brain at times. As always, its stereo voice came from his deceased toddler’s baby monitor on the side table next to him. A picture of pre-teen Stevee set in a frame for an additional, touching decoration.

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Marshall had a love for interior design makeover TV shows that he was taking to extremes during his interrogations. He believed every human brain was a home. Cozy or not, textures, shapes, colors, people, things, and places made every single one of them unique.

    Elias shrieked, but no sound came out nor was there any lip movement. He rocked away in his chair with the same momentum. Arms loose on the armrests. Face like there wasn’t any care in the world. His eldest and only surviving son, Stevee, now a grown man came to mind with his green hunting cap and muscle shirts. His blond beard, sect tattoos, and rubber boots thickly soiled in arroyo mud. He had no idea who’d taught him fishing but this old man woke every morning to the sound of his meat cleaver and wooden chopping block, gutting his catch of the day still kept away in Dante’s pick-up truck cooler.

    “ELIAS!” Marshall bellowed, taken aback by its prisoner’s train of thought. “THINK ABOUT ME! YIELD TO ME!” His resting face did not match with the way the machine was twisting and pulling his mind like a rubber band, at the hands of a curious child. Water began to filter through the wooden walls, a river coming from behind him and running towards the direction of the small front door before him, carrying fish and stones.

    But then, another frequency cut in to be broadcasted in that very same baby monitor. “Elias. Pick up. It’s me again . . . I . . .” The boy sniffled and swallowed hard. “My grandfather . . . He just passed away and I don’t know what to do. I'm getting everything ready for the funeral. I’m

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fulfilling my promise to him one way or another. But feel so alone, I need your help. Please . . . I know you can listen to me. Pick up, I—”

    “Ah, there it is again! Is it my lucky day?” Marshall chirped. “Let’s see if we can dig a little deep—”

    Elias woke up feeling he was falling from the earth itself and wheezed looking at the ceiling of his old, and battered low country beach shack. He sat up jittering as he scratched his head. He looked down at his bed, wet in piss. “Motherfucker!” He jumped out of bed in his wet boxers and grabbed his rifle and a grenade from a dusty box. He also snatched his flashlight as dawn was barely creeping out. He walked twenty yards to a new antenna Los Adoradores had installed two days ago at the top of a rough grassland hill—unironically behind his home—and blew it up with a pop and a gentle toss of his wrist. The grenade had rolled gingerly on the grass before getting lost in the explosion. The antenna was no more but pieces of blackened electronics. “I’LL KILL ONE OF YOUR WHORES BEFORE SUNSET! YOU HEAR ME?! YOU CHEAP ROBOT!!” Having done and said that, he went back home.

    As he approached home, he heard the familiar chop, chop, chopping of the knife against the chopping block. Stevee had gotten home from fishing just now. Dante’s pickup truck was now parked at the side of the beach, Stevee always left his neighbor’s car keys on the front porch

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before he could wake up. Elias circled around the house and found his son walking out from the kitchen to snatch another river fish from the cooler.

    “Hola, Pa!” (Hi, Dad!) Stevee waltzed on his way to give him a hug, squeezing his eyes tight with a big smile, he rested his chin on his broad shoulder. People with Down Syndrome have a chubby semblance and short stature, genetically.

    “Buenos días, pibe . . .” (Good morning, buddy . . .) He said softly with a gentle pat on the back of his son’s neck. “¿Cómo te fue en el río?” (How did it go on the river?)

    “The catch was great, but it won’t last.” Stevee let go and spun the baseball cap he was wearing that morning with a sigh. Back strap to the front. “I saw them at Mar Chiquita on my way to the arroyo and back . . .”

    “What was it?”

    “A new checkpoint, I think.” Stevee dried his sticky hands on his fishy-smelling apron.

    “No more fishing, then?”

    “We could go back to deer hunting or . . .”

    Elias kicked a stone out of his way. “Mariano can’t solve all of our problems.”

    “Then, what do we do?” Stevee flapped his arms in the air.

    “Deer hunting will be. First thing in the morning, tomorrow.” Elias kissed him on the brow. “Don’t sweat it, okay?” He said. His son shook his head and went back to his tree stump

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cutting table, as the old man walked back into the house in his wet underwear. Los Adoradores or The Adorers however you called them or looked at them were the same thing. Different languages, and different cultures, led by different supercomputers with different personalities, yet led the psychos only they could have ever created. Elias knew that every day the Los Adoradores were quiet roamers of their own regions—catatonic bison on the pastures when given no orders or creatures that moved around in packs that found solace in simple pleasures—was an adequate day for humanity. The frail minds of a lost society. Marshall and the rest of the supercomputers knew the kind of humans who would not fall for their tricks and how to manhandle them, those who’d still do nothing about it, and last, those who showed some sort of resistance even under kinetic attacks.

    The fifty-eight-year-old electrical engineer had the feeling he was one of Marshall’s most unputdownable specimens, the machine made an appearance at the back of his mind every night. No one he'd had the opportunity to ask was being pestered this much, and now Los Adoradores was messing with his son’s only distraction from a world of hurt and bloodshed that also kept them both well-fed. His mind took him back to Tatiana, his wise mother-in-law who’d reproved his fealty to Mariano from the very beginning. Back then he’d not had eyes to see the man’s tyrannical cause. Ex-Colonel Mariano Zavala had devised his own group of

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mercenaries composed of ex-servicemen faithful to him like hounds plus a bunch of Porteños who’d joined just like he did.

    Elias dropped all his clothes by his aluminum bathtub, a somewhat oxidized barrel cut in half from top to bottom, and welded to a substructure in a simulated bathroom inside his shack where he stored fuel cans, 5.3 gallons each of fresh water. The floor was sand, dirt, and weed beneath a loose wood window frame he had placed as part of the roof to have some light come in, in the mornings at the center of his home. A skylight while his heavy, ashen curtains kept everything else in the dark. He’d found the barrel in a yard sale in the countryside years ago in which he supposed horses or pigs had been quenching their thirst.  

     Their beach shack had seen better days and had never recovered. No electricity or water, and rooms that had been found gone and shapeless, torn to pieces like they had been keeping secrets from someone who’d had the need to destroy them. Pipes and insulation walls were exposed in some places, and tiles had been shattered to dig the ground. Fallen cupboards, a patched roof here and there, sand-dusted wooden floors from coming in and out of the house carelessly.

     He grimaced down at his tattooed palms, his own sect marks. Mariano’s sect, as if there were not enough whackos roaming in Buenos Aires. He was one of them, and Stevee was too. Cave painting stick figures had been carved with ink deep into his flesh, one on each hand.

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    A creature with long chicken legs, thin wings, two long necks, and two dots for human heads on each end. The figure on his left hand faced right, and the figure on his right hand faced left. He had strangled newcomers for Mariano with those crude hands.

    Elias Luna tottered into his tub which he had just filled with cold water, sat down with a gentle sway, and poured water over his head. He reached out for the dry, lemon lard soap he kept by and began to scrub.

    “Willard Boone Armstrong . . .” He mumbled to himself. “Pick up, kiddo . . .” Then sighed, “I’m incommunicado, I’ve been all this time but I can hear you. If you happen to be listening somehow . . . My condolences to you, I know what you are going through. Boone was no ordinary man, and you are proof of it all by yourself . . . I’m afraid . . .  I’m in a pickle down here too.” Water dripped down his nose in silence for a moment. “But I’m still killing one of them before sundown like I promised. For the only son, I have left.”

    Despite the certainty that his comforting message would get lost somewhere in limbo—however or whatever frequency Boone Amstrong’s grandson had gained access to. He believed this boy had some sort of connection to his deceased wife, Florence, and the last words that came out of her before her passing. He knew nothing about this boy save that he had been born the year the unidentified object had entered the atmosphere and sunken into the Atlantic Ocean, prior to or after the event, he had no clue.

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     What he knew was that Willard was entering an undetectable frequency to reach his brain, possibly the lowest infrasound—frequencies below 20hz—anyone could come across. A kinetic oscillation that should be harmful to the boy’s brain and his own. He’d been keeping track of his mental health for months now writing a diary on his old Lenovo laptop, the first contact ever made with the child had been around five months ago while in the middle of a shooting against Los Adoradores that left him in a state of shock until his buddies came after him, and dragged him away from the conflict. Then taken to have a CT scan, which concluded that his brain was in perfect condition, and with no signs of trauma. To be fair, he felt remorse for slightly despising Mariano, after all, the ex-colonel had done everything to make one of his veterans fully recover and with follow-up checkups free of cost. Even today, the leader showed his concern whenever he spoke about listening to that child, he’d been pretty open about working for Ophiucus Corp. in the past and his fleeting ties to the Armstrong family. Well, he had disclosed almost everything except what Boone had made him swear he would never speak about in regards to Destine. Actually, Boone had taken no chances and made everyone sign papers, an oath of silence. Not even his mother-in-law or his then-teenage son had known what he and the rest of Boone’s team had done to get the system running again.

    Elias grabbed a clean towel hopping out of the bathtub. His feet caked in sand right away, he dusted off his soles before getting into a pair of jeans and a gray hoodie. He usually went

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around the house barefoot. It felt great in his feet after his long night shifts, plopped on a metal folding chair in the cold and rain with a rifle at what used to be Ciudad Deportiva de San Lorenzo de Almagro. In english, Sport City - San Lorenzo de Almagro.

     Marianos’ sect—Cuervos Rojos (Red Crows)—had installed themselves there years ago during the earlier stages of mass recruitment, not even holding a name as they did now. Actually, Elias and Stevee had joined them before taking ahold of the facilities and had helped to do so just months after Tati’s and Tobey’s cold-blooded murder. Helping guard the perimeters at the Cuervos Rojo’s headquarters was his latest gig within the sect, he was qualified to do absolutely any kind of job for them but slowly and surely had been trying to detach from any life-threatening or complex task. ‘Complex tasks’ is what Elias described as anything that involved transporting Mariano’s recently acquired goods, taken by force or through the black market. One silly mistake and he’d have your brains blown out, no matter if you were close to being his mother.

    Elias put on his rubber boots and walked out to the remains of last night’s campfire to reignite it with some dry wood and gasoline. He pulled some Tupperware containing chimichurri sauce and chopped potatoes from an icebox he kept in the kitchen and fried some freshly cut boga filets Stevee tossed to his scorchingly buttered pan with a smile. Having cleaned up after breakfast, and stored all the fresh fish meat with the help of his son, he boiled

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some water for Stevee to get rid of the sweat, blood, and raw smell in their deep tub. Elias checked his smartphone to look at the time, 8:32 A.M. He slipped his laptop into his backpack, kicked off his rubber boots to put some socks on, and picked up his hiking shoes. Strapped his chest gun holster, placed his gun in, and on his hood went.

    “I’m leaving now! Don’t wait for your old man for dinner!”

    “Gotcha!” He heard his son chirp from the bathroom and then said between splashes, “Have a good one!”

    Elias Luna left the house, left the beach, and followed the road on foot like he did every morning. The ruins of the city were overhead, but he looked back at his home, the only place resting on the sand and just feet away from the shore in miles. It was an unlikely home design compared to the rest of the house beaches here in Mar del Plata. He’d picked that quiet place after leaving the bloodied backyard of their first home after fleeing from the United States.

    The old engineer walked 2 kilometers of sand-swiped road that was abundantly hit with the sea salt wind. He stopped by a crooked palm tree with a spray-painted X on it, the loneliest living thing with a soft shade beneath it. Ten minutes later he could make out his ride coming from the city, a red Hyundai Pony that belonged in the 80s, yet here it came stuffed with the psychos he knew so well. Men armed to the teeth in such a tight space, so much so that their chests hung out the windows like agitated dogs, ready to shoot anything.

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    The Pony drove past and came back after a U-turn with everyone inside snickering.  “Che, boludo, te ves mal! Te cogió de nuevo el pibe ese!” (Hey, dickhead, you look awful! That guy fucked you up again!) He heard one of his pals holler at the far seat.    

     “Sos una mierda, Gael!” (You are a piece of shit, Gael!) Elias protested, taking the free passenger seat as they laughed even more. “Hijo de remil putas!”(Son of a thousand whores!) He shut the door and shot daggers at everyone through the rearview mirror.

    The grins and chuckles quickly died down, their higher-up and captain usually sported a good sense of humor, but not this morning. All five men rode in complete silence for at least fifteen minutes. The driver, Vicencio, quietly handed him a cigar to ease the mood and someone at the back helped him with a lighter. Elias’ hand hung from the window to keep the smoke out and his thoughts inside his head where they belonged. 

    But then one of them asked, “¿Qué pasó con el nene? ¿Sigue apareciendo?” (What about the kid? Is he still showing up?)

    Elias bit his tongue, but he’d been filling in these shitheads for too long for him to shut up now. “Se le acaba de morir el abuelo al nene. Está hecho un desastre . . .” (His grandfather just died. He is a mess right now.) He sucked on his bundle of tobacco leaves and placed his hand out of the vehicle again.

    Gael sighed, “Me cago en esta vida . . . ¡La puta que me parió!” (Fuck this life . . . Fuck me!)

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    “Lo se, che, lo se y no puedo dejar de pensar en mi esposa. Estoy re cagado con todo esto, no se que es lo que está pasando.” (I know, man, I know and I  can’t stop thinking about my wife. I’m pissed off with all of this, I don't know what’s going on.)

    Vicencio took the road parallel to the shore, the sun was rising further and the beach was deserted for miles except for scattered palm trees and tumbleweeds. Elias was taken aback with the next question, coming from his driver, “¿Te arrepientes de haber regresado a Argentina cuando tenías planes de mudarte a Washington D.C.?” (Do you regret coming back to Argentina when you had plans to move to Washington D.C.?)

   Mi nene estaría vivo, mi suegra estaría viva . . . ¿Qué puta pregunta es esa? (My toddler would be alive, my mother-in-law would be alive . . . What kind of fucking question is that?) Elias found out he could do nothing but say the truth. Lying would make his men question his sincerity immediately the moment he denied not wishing his younger son was alive. One of the many things he’d learned from joining Cuervos Rojos was that members’ statements mattered so much that loyalty hung from every word. His own, their own, mattered to these men and women. Any ambiguity, any incongruence was a cause of alarm.

    Entering the city, Elias reimagined Buenos Aires as it used to be, it definitely still held the title of the Paris of South America for him today. Even surrounded by its own rubble, the American Baroque style was still very much present. The religious, heavily decorative architecture was still 

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carefully sculpted into colonial art. With every pilaster, monument, and strict symmetry, this was his home despite his grieving. 

    But then he grunted at the sight of a coming sandstorm from the west side of the city. Elias opened the glove box before him with haste and took out all of its contents. Spared scarves and goggles for those who carried none today in their backpacks. Those who had brought all their gear fumbled until they’d successfully covered their faces.

   He could not admit to himself that one obscure corner inside him would miss seeing these men's faces every morning, riding with the sun on his face. He was hoping to negotiate his retirement with Mariano with the help of his long-time friend Romina Quiroga—Mariano’s right hand, and second-in-command. The engineer had exposed his case to the seventy-two-year-old ex-servicewoman months ago with the beginning of Marshall’s pestilent attacks along his hospital consultations. He desired for his and his son’s release because his mind was taking a toll with all these while Stevee had begun to present arthritis in his hands that same year. Patients with Down Syndrome were prone to develop this plus other physical deficiencies carried with the condition as age progressed, his father wanted to avoid further deterioration. This was the right time to say goodbye.

    Just after throwing away his cigar and shutting the car windows tight—the sand hit them. The Pony fought bravely against the winds as Vicencio tried to keep them on the road between what

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he could and could not see. The sound of sand and dust as it filtered into the car overpowered all noises, and soon enough it entered through the air conditioner vents in coughs. Elias slapped close the vents and looked through the wing mirror as they wobbled forward very slowly. He was transfixed by what he could make out behind them. A thunderstorm flashed in the dusty sky with purple lighting bolts. He needed to know what that was. Without a warning to anyone inside the vehicle, he wheeled his window all the way down and sat on the car door with a leg wrapped around his loose seat belt to avoid being carried away by the winds. He looked up above at what was causing the zapping phenomenon, his hood rattled as he squinted to see what looked like a disco ball twenty meters upon them. A stop sign brushed his head by an inch when he realized Los Adoradores were suddenly creeping out of the sewer drains while the spherical machine began to lose altitude, he plopped back into his seat inside the car. “¡Vicencio!! ¡Pisa el acelerador YA!” (Vicencio!! Hit the pedal NOW!) This wasn’t your typical alien technology-incepted sandstorm.

    “Apunten a  la cabeza, boludos! O el coche se nos va a la mierda!” (Aim to the head, boys! Or the car is going down!) Everyone loaded their weapons and perched onto the windows. Vicencio had to avoid colliding with the coming, looming figures veiled by the storm, desperately running towards the hovering disco ball machine. They brought down target to target hastily enough to have bodies pile up before them on the streets which they had no choice but to run over. Los 

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Adoradores—an unarmed lot of them slithered out from the sewers in manageable numbers. But the sphere was tailing them closely, the streets began to cram, and the Pony was being rattled from side to side. It seemed most of them battered the car on the way to the spherical machine but hands began reaching onto them. Armed to the teeth indeed but the place was starting to look like a mosh circle out of control. Elias kicked a few heads and even aimed at their wandering hands. He had no choice but to hop on the roof and shoot at everyone around them, and when Gael almost fell into their hands, he quickly loaded his gun and grabbed him by the collar before emptying his weapon on the attackers. But then he heard yelps behind him, he turned around to watch Rogelio—one of his most quiet men—being thrashed as he was pulled out of the car.

    “ELIAAAAAAAAAAAS!”

    “Mierda, mierda, mierda!” (Shit, shit, shit!) Elias was out of bullets. In a desperate attempt to save this man he commanded, he threw himself into the crowd. Rogelio was dragged away between cries of victory. The rest of the gang were piling up more bodies around them. 

    This could have been Elias’ death, but while he tried to punch his way through, his back was pinned against the car. Then, it happened. Rogelio, with a bloodied face and in a chokehold,  went for a bite at the hand of the old man holding him in place from behind. Yet there were no screams from the captor. Rogelio’s teeth bit into flesh, blood trickling. But the old man held the

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rebel still. The storm came to a halt and the crowd quieted as they all stood with vacant eyes, Elias could hear the engine of the Pony in a void of silence. He turned to look at the sphere above, blinking no more. 

    The rebels in the car lowered their guns. Rogelio’s death was too swift, a quick movement in a moment of stillness, the old man headbutted him from behind and he fell limp onto his back, mouth open with bloodied gums. Elias did not take his eyes off the dead man, yet searched for the handle of the passenger seat with a trembling hand. Vicencio needed no command to know once his boss was inside the car they were good to go. 

   The engineer looked back as they left the scene, fixed like a photograph as Los Adoradores remained frozen in place. He squinted at the hovering ball growing smaller, the car putting distance between them.

    “Feromonas . . . ecuaciones químicas?” (Pheromones . . . chemical equations?) He mumbled to himself. 

    They drove another ten minutes before arriving at the barred entrance of their—sport city—headquarters, surrounded by tall cement walls that now made it look like a prison, Mariano’s men worked on clearing the access at the sight of the battered Pony, a vehicle they were not unfamiliar with but not in its current state. Once inside, Vicencio turned off the motor, and something jiggled beneath the hood before dying surrounded by smoke. Elias got

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out of the car and paced back and forth, holding his head knowing the cost of this would be too high.

    “¡Pero qué maldito quilombo!” (What a fucking mess!) Gael gasped, crawling out of the hot Pony. Men poured out, tugged by their shirts, wheezing from inhaling too much of the car’s exhaust.

    “Che, ¿qué está pasando allá afuera!?” (Brother, what’s going on outside?) Asked one of the guardsmen, alerted by the state of their arriving comrades.

    “Perdí a un hombre durante un conflicto y necesito hablar con Romina en privado  lo antes posible.” (I lost one of my men in conflict and I need to talk to Romina in private as soon as possible.)

    The guardsmen mashed some buttons on their console behind a bulletproof glass house. Elias was alert, remorseful for contemplating for just a second riding with these men, and held anything close to nostalgia. No, no, no, no, no, mercy, mercy, please. I didn’t mean it. He kept telling himself, as the wired door unlocked automatically to the sports city’s campus, feeling sick to his stomach. The campus was green but was utilized as a military base with training areas and boxes of supplies and ammunition wherever you looked. A mechanic's workshop at the far end of the parking lot, jammed with vehicles to be checked. The stadium had been turned into a heliport while the stands had been reconditioned and isolated from the field with standard glass

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and beams to create offices, a cafeteria, an ER, and other necessities. All were divided into different floors.

   The sun high up above him burned his skin as he walked to the stadium. A cloud momentarily hid the sun for him to see an approaching helicopter making its way to the building. A rebel standing guard nearby jogged to his side to let him know that was Romina’s ride. She’d been notified of the occurrence via radio, and that he’d meet up with her upon landing.

    Security patted down Elias at the front door after handling his gun and then headed to what used to be the soccer field. His boots sank slightly on the natural, moist turf as he approached the helipad. Romina descended to the ground before him. A hand was clasped to her tool belt, and the other was wrapped to a banister onboard. With grim green eyes, her short white curls were blown by the wind, and she dressed all in camouflage: long-sleeve buttoned tactical shirt, pants, and combat boots. As the helicopter made contact with the ground, she moved quickly, followed by her squad, and once it emptied, her men dispersed, returning to inactivity. The flying vehicle exited the building as sharply as it arrived as duty awaited, and Elias—who’d learned to live with a shrunken heart—was aware that in the world view of this sect, blood was paid with blood.

    He knew Mariano had a baleful heart when showing who their leader was. There were men with more loyalty in them and had still ended up murdered and defiled by the man himself. There was a whopping distance from a man who ordered his men to commit an atrocious act to a man who took the initiative to do it himself. Romina had acquired the delicate skill of being friends with the man in question, and even then, she owed him for the life of her drug-addict son. Her only child. Amir Quiroga had once been a capable and respected surgeon nationwide. However, Marshall had broken his brain severely to the point of crippling depression. If Mariano’s paramedics hadn’t saved his life from a lethal overdose a couple of years ago, Romina wouldn’t feel the need to satisfy his every need. On the other hand, her boss didn’t waste any opportunity to tell her she had a dog for a child—an inept one.

    “How bad is it?” Elias went off in English, following her into their facilities one more.

    “Oh, bad enough.” She said, looking straight ahead. “You goofed up months of work. I wrote him an entire fucking report on your case. Do you even know how many angles I had to come up with 

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for him to let you go?! For him to show you any sympathy?! I used too many psychological tricks for you to mess up like this!!”

    “Rogelio died in an unheard-of situation. I can prove it.” He shot back. “Marshall must be using pheromones, human fluids of some sort, to control the masses!”

“Well, if you speak to HIM about it, he will choose YOU to dig up this mystery, and there will be no conciliatory retirement for you.” She scoffed, then came to a stop and sighed. “Elias, listen, I have a meeting with him right now. Rogelio’s death will be brought up at some point. I assume we will check the street cams to see if any footage can be helpful under that damn sandstorm. DO NOT—AND I REPEAT—DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE UNTIL I COME WITH A VERDICT! YOU HEAR ME?” And she stormed off, escorted by a soldier waiting for her at the end of the hall.

    He maintained his composure until she was out of sight. When he couldn't hear their footsteps anymore he kicked the nearest garbage bin, litter flying everywhere, then slammed the container against the wall. Elias collapsed against that same wall and squeezed his face under his callused hands, trying to unsee the problem he was to face now.

    With his face buried between his fingers, a notification bell rang at the interior of his jeans’ back pocket, accompanied by a soft buzz. He dug his phone out, but his screen was empty. Instead of an email, a text message, or an app note, the battery showed 2% remaining when he remembered he had left his smartphone charging all night. He got to his feet and recalled that a spare charger was inside his backpack. His backpack was still inside the Pony, he reminded himself. So he left the building and headed to the mechanic’s workshop. Where he retrieved his belongings without a problem. By then, his phone was dead, and he opted to charge his device at one of the computer labs while checking his email on his laptop. That was another trip back to headquarters, followed by a trip on the elevator and into a glass door room with sharp A/C, long office desks, ergonomic chairs,  a whiteboard, and the best wifi in Buenos Aires. Two other sect members sat there working in total silence and with large headphones on. They were spying on Marshall’s next moves, triangulating his hovering robots and taking notes.

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    Elias plopped into a chair and plugged his trusted Lenovo and smartphone into the metal plug sockets built into the desk. After scrolling through his email for at least a quarter of an hour, his phone began to buzz at intervals while completely off. He cocked an eyebrow and stared at it for a couple of minutes, then picked it up and held the power source button to turn it on. The buzzing only stopped when the screen lit up. His heart skipped a beat when his phone displayed the name ‘Ophiucus Corp.’ and the company’s logo on the opening screen instead of the regular Motorola Edge system. Suddenly, he remembered the security cameras in the room and brought his phone closer, covering it with the sleeve of his hoodie. A million thoughts plagued his mind, recalling last night’s dream with Willard regarding Boone’s unfortunate passing. When the device was done running a reconditioning on his phone and installing the new software in seconds, he exhaled at the sight of his regular user interface intact, but with one small exception. The SMS app had been brought up forward among his most-used apps. A red bubble that notified of a single message popped up, and no notification bell rang. He opened his new inbox—he had seldom used the SMS application since he bought this smartphone at a car boot sale two years ago from some foreigners who had happened to pull up in the city.

    “It’s me. Better late than sorry.” Elias read out loud the message, his voice quaking. Yet so softly for anyone to listen to him. He stopped himself from exhaling louder, thinking about Tatiana and Tobey. There was no room to cry, he told himself. He covered his face with the hoodie, leaned on his chair, and took a deep breath, his hands shaking on his lap. “Geez, calm down,” Was the next message to drop. “Boone is gone. But you know that, don’t you?” 

    “Can you watch me from inside here?” Elias finally texted back, leaning on the desk.

    “Yes, of course. I’m using the damn satellites you helped build for Destine to work. Remember?”

    “Forest, this wasn’t Boone’s orders, was it?”

    “You didn’t get to know him that well . . .  apparently!”

    “I’ve had dreams with his grandson, Willard.”

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    “Yep. He is a smart kid and very gifted. He is still unaware of our secret branch at Ophiucus Corp. Boone wouldn’t have had it any other way. I’ll have to explain much later on the dreaming part, though. We’ve been spying on you all this time on Boone’s orders. He wasn’t sure you’d abide by the confidentiality the company needed, he found your secrecy very refreshing! Apologies for the impertinence on his behalf. You know how businessmen are.”

    “That’s an uncomfortable compliment, but okay.”

“While he was conscious, he also requested we come into contact again after his passing. So, here we are to help you! We’ve collected almost every document from the Red Crows database over the years. Some of them will need more sophisticated cracking, though.”

    “How is this going to help me? You’ll get my son and I murdered.”

    “Not if . . . you murder Mariano first and take control of the Red Crows.”

    Elias suppressed his need to slam something and breathe deeply, lightly tossing his phone on the desk.

    “Uh oh, your heart rate is up.” Forest pointed out in yet another text message. “Wait . . . Are you gonna GHOST me now? NOT AFTER WHAT I HAVE BEEN THROUGH, RIGHT?”

    Elias picked up the phone when he wished to put a gun in his mouth. “No, of course not.” He answered with remorse. He envied Boone at that moment. The rich old bastard got away with the atrocious act of putting a human brain into a grinder to create the first biotic computer to save his company, potentially the entire world. Forest Ziegelbauer, Boone’s apprentice and prodigy boy, had been convinced to become the machine in question. An old egomaniac had brainwashed a child who’d been fed with delusions of grandeur all his life. But when the old fart finally realized the monstrosity of his every command, he’d made everyone in his team swear left and right such a machine was just a fantasy, or they would be violating signed non-disclosure agreements. The government of the United States proceeded to interrogate Armstrong, but they didn’t obtain truthful answers from him or his team, even their polygraph tests couldn’t get an ounce of authenticity from them, something was interfering with their apparatuses. The government raided 

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Ophiucus Corp. in search of young genius Ziegelbauer, who was reported missing by his family at age nineteen. Elias had left the United States before the government’s involvement and lost all contact with the engineering team after the search warrant took place. It had been in all the headlines, though, the news media had reported that the American government had found nothing of value, no human machine, but no young genius as well. 

    “Good,” Forest responded drily. “Hold up a second.” 

    Elias flinched as his laptop screen went dark, too, he folded it shut immediately before the security cameras could catch anything suspicious. 

    “No, open it up! I’ve hijacked the surveillance cameras already. Come on.”

    He had enough courage left in him to do as the genius said, what would be presented before him would chill him to the bone. The engineer found a brand new folder on his desktop, named ‘math’, he opened it to find several documents Forest urged him to dig into once he was back home in Mar Del Plata. He went through some of them quickly, every single one stamped as property of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. This meant the American government had found everything they wanted and covered it up. Ophiucus’ secret branch had belonged to the government all these years, Boone, Forest, and the team under their charge from that moment on. Elias Luna, senior staff engineer of the branch, was their only loose end unequivocally. He was being hit by one big mess after another in a single day.

    Forest gave him a quick rundown of what he’d find in these documents: Mariano Zavala’s unfolded net worth, medical prescriptions, diet, morning and night routines. Favorite cuisine. Gym routine. The exact number of gold crown teeth in his mouth, information provided by his dentist. Credit and debit card information, balance, and credit score were included in extensive detail. Complete list of briberies, extortions, embezzlement, money laundering, fraud, and misusing his authority for personal gain inside the Red Crows. Which had clusters within the sect unhappy. The American government watched closely the Red Crow’s agenda and their everyday to-do list to achieve expansion beyond Buenos Aires very soon. 

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    They knew when supplies came in, such as the community’s groceries with special deliveries of luxury foods for the Zavala. Approximately 400+ men and women of the 3,700 sect members had been reached out by Forest on behalf of the American, Brazilian, and Chilean governments to help overthrow Mariano and ensure his elimination. All of them had accepted the task of helping their new leader, Elias, sabotage Mariano and take control of the sect while maintaining their anonymity even in the engineer’s presence alone, hopefully saving his life if unknowing members posed a threat during tense moments. This meant his allies would remain close to his surroundings, yet he’d have to think twice before shooting anybody as they’d have to play the part.

    The engineer scrolled through the carefully dated archive until he came across Ophiucus Corp. documents. He clicked on a document that caught his eye and ran through it silently. He brought his laptop closer, rubbing his chin.

    “OH,” Forest texted. “About that . . .”

    “Tell me about it.” Elias typed on his phone.

    “Ikarus has been running malware tests on a few of our Destine servers. He located our weakest server and infected it. Ainsworth, Nebraska. The server has been isolated so the virus doesn’t spread. We have an agent working on it, don’t worry.”

    “An agent?”

    “Agent Jules. He is bringing Willard Armstrong on board. I need some help around here. Ikarus has been on my heels for a decade and a half now. The Conquerors’ technology is far too advanced for me to initiate exposure without contracting any malignant data. It’s already been done by the most powerful governments in the world, our computers do not survive tapping into them. We have to change our perspective of modern technology to surpass them. All we could need for that is ten solid minutes of counterattack. This could easily start a new psychic attack, though.”

    “You need a brand new machine to operate indirectly, correct? A glove for a hand?”

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    “Pretty much so.” Forest then texted, “Well, would you look at that! Romina and Mariano just ended their meeting. You might be able to catch up on them if you take the elevator to the lobby right now.”

    Elias shut down and folded his computer. He reached for his charger and phone and got out of there, keeping his cool. There was a certain relief in his bones since Forest had been roaming around these parts for quite some time. The American government must have found a way to block and simulate normal brainwave patterns inside Buenos Aires to be able to contact everyone without Marshall’s knowledge. The engineer sped up the pace in the hall.

   “I’m warning you, though. There’s no good news from what I just listened to through Romina’s smartphone. There are no cameras or microphones in that room, so I’ve been spying on them the old-school way.” 

    Elias cursed under his breath. Relief gone, he punched the elevator button hastily and waited for the chromatic door to open.

   Forest detected a great amount of brain activity as he closely observed the engineer’s vitals, hesitation, and trepidation were boiling inside his mind. The ride down was a silent one, the man’s eyes fixed on the dropping numbers above his head. Then the door rolled open before the lobby, and he found Romina, Mariano, and his henchmen conversing by the reception. With a slim, square-ish glass of scotch between his aged hands. The alcohol must have cost him millions to import due to the ethanol crisis. A hundred bucks the ounce.

    Who was Mariano Zavala in actuality? The face of the city of Buenos Aires. Their imposed Prince of Boodshed, while Marshall was the King of All Horrors. Fear and respect were gut instincts in the presence of this man for all who wanted to survive. The ex-colonel always wore a tactical warmth skull cap, his hair escaped the head cover from behind as a very thin, white, and coal braid. His face sucked in and traced his skull bones, all in plain sight through his messy and equally peppered beard. After all these years, he continued dyeing his eyebrows too dark. Black eyes, big teeth. But the appearance of an old man was just that, a semblance. Elias had seen him 

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in action, a man of no second thoughts, and no woman, child, or elder would take the upper hand against him. By the time Mariano handed his glass to one of his men to greet him, all he could see in the man’s dark eyes was the reflection of his son, Stevee. Forest prayed he had self-control as the engineer was thinking about strangling his boss with his military dog tag. Like so many men he’d forced him to kill.

    “Elias, mi amigo!” (Elias, buddy!)

    “Mariano . . . ” he nodded.

   “Ven para acá, pibe.” (Come here, son.) The ex-colonel wrapped an arm around his back. The elderly woman and he locked eyes for seconds before he followed her gaze downward, fixing on the ground. “Mi más sentido pésame. Que te quiten un hombre es como que te arranquen una extremidad.” (My most sincere condolences. Losing one of your men is like losing a limb.)

    “Estoy dispuesto a quedarme unos cuantos meses más por esta pérdida.” (I’m willing to stay a few more months over this loss.) Elias came in straightforward. Romina’s eyes widened.

    “Ah, loco . . . !” (Oh, man . . . !) Mariano then let out a whistle. “Romina y yo lo hemos discutido esto por meses . . . Pero acepta tú responsabilidad, la situación a cambiado.” (Romina and I have discussed this for months . . . But you need to accept your responsibility, the situation has changed.)

    “¿Qué tanto a cambiando la situación?” (How much has the situation changed?) Mariano picked up his confrontational tone and looked up at the ceiling, pursing his lips. Romina begged him with her gaze to put an end to this. Before their boss could snap at him, he caught them staring at each other, and immediately, Elias couldn’t keep thinking only about his son anymore. “Díme entonces, cuál será mi castigo?” (Tell me then, what is my punishment?) He dropped his head in submission, hands on his waist.

    “A los bocones les va mal . . . ” (Big mouths do not fare well . . . ) Mariano hissed at him, then turned to Romina with—heavier than before—blood-hungry eyes.

    “El que la cago aquí soy yo.” (I’m the one who screw up here.) The engineer butted in.

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    “Qué tanto la cagaste, entonces?” (How badly did you screw up, then?) Mariano scoffed, his index finger and thumb tracing his gun holster. His henchmen were on the lookout.

    “Romina está preocupada por mi puta vida porque Rogelio llevaría a Amir a comprar cocaina este fin de semana. Yo me ofrecí a llevarlo después de su muerte.” (Romina is all worked up over my motherfucking life because Rogelio was supposed to take Amir out to buy cocaine this weekend. I offered to take him after his death.) Elias’ beats per minute rose as he threw a lie that could get them both before the firing squad.

   “Ah, sí?” (Is that so?) Mariano turned to his right hand for an answer.

    “Tú sabes que no dejo de ser madre.” (You know I can’t stop being a mother.) She scowled.

    “Muy bien.” (Very good.) He smiled, laughed even. His men looked back and forth between their boss and his two targets. “Bueno . . . un hombre menos, no favorece a tu equipo. Ya lo dije antes. Romina y yo pensamos que tú retiro tampoco favorece a tú equipo. ¿Vas entendiendo ahora?” (Well . . . one man less doesn’t favor your team. I’ve said that before. Romina and I think your retirement won’t favor your team either. Are you catching up now?”

    Elias frowned, and she looked a bit shaken.

    Their boss continued, “Quiero que Stevee tome el lugar de Rogelio. Se que él esta en otro equipo, pero me parece que estarás de mejor ánimo si ves a tú nene todos los días. Para siempre.” (I want Steve to take Rogelio’s place. I know he is on another team, but I think you’ll be on a better mood if you see your baby boy every day. Forever.)

   His blood went cold, and Mariano and his men walked past him and to what used to be the stadium’s parking lot. Romina had to follow, and so she did. Whispering a trembling “Thank you . . . ” On her way out.

    At 6:00 P.M., the engineer and his team clocked out, picked another car from the headquarters’ garage, and drove back home in tense silence. Vicencio was behind the steering wheel as usual. Now with an empty seat next to Gael. Having dropped off the latter home, Elias commanded his remaining soldier to give him the car keys—he’d be dropping him home instead—and would pick 

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up everyone again tomorrow morning, before work. This happened occasionally, so Vicencio complied with his team leader’s orders and was dropped off at his place. Elias then drove straight to his home at Mar Del Plata. As he pulled the car up onto the beach sand, he could listen to music coming from Stevee’s old battery-powered radio, and the lit bonfire behind their shack brightened part of the interior of their home.

    He quietly got out of the car and shut the door softly. He quickly went through his phone right there and then, safe now from his comrades. Forest had left some instructions for him to go through in his email. He wanted him to build him a ‘small body’. A robot, the prodigy boy, could take over and control as he wished. The engineer went through a checklist in his head. The components he had in his storage room might be sufficient. He was always picking up junk by the side of the road and at abandoned places, taking it home just in case.

    “¿¡Qué haces afuera, Pa?!” (What are you doing outside, Pops?!) Stevee inquired with a smile, knuckles on his sides, and looking him up and down.

    “That’s gonna be a long story to tell.” Elias tried to chuckle at the sight of the good nature of his remaining son. “But I’ll need all the help I can get . . . Let’s grab some beers, and I’ll fill you in while we cook dinner!”

     “I’ve got potato salad done!”

    “Well, would you look at that!”

    Forest watched as father and son boiled eggs and grilled more fish from that morning. Elias explained to Stevee what had happened that day to the best of his ability. Starting with that morning’s dream with Willard and Marshall, to Rogelio’s death, his discussion with Romina, Forest’s intervention, and finally, the confrontation with Mariano. While Forest could detect wariness in his brain, he could also perceive how mystified he was on certain aspects of Elias’ tale. Stevee had been raised in a stable home until the age of fourteen, back when his mother died at the grand psychic attack of The Conquerors, then spent his first three years in Buenos Aires learning the language and protecting his grandmother and baby brother under his father’s 

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teachings. But the coming sixteen years under the wings of Mariano’s cult must have caused a haze of judgements that Elias was aware of—much could be seen at first glance. Stevee, just like his father, had been ordered to kill, to torture, break bones, and manipulate outsiders for the cause of the Red Crows. Not even Elias knew the extent of the damage, since Stevee had worked independently with other members of the cult, just as any other adult member would. Forest and the authorities who observed him concluded, however, that his brain waves indicated a favorable openness to change.

    They sat down to eat by the fire, and under the clear night sky, like they did every night. Elias brought his laptop and cellphone with him on their improvised table—a few empty cola boxes beneath a wood topside—so his son could have a look at everything he had been presented with, and quickly realized that the secret Ophiucus Corp. software installed on both of his devices provided him with unlimited internet access too. He was correct about the American government simulating normal brainwave patterns to some degree inside the country to be undetected. But he was positive they knew he was a primary target for Marshall. Things wouldn’t change much inside his brain, or that would be too obvious.

    Forest greeted them right off the bat, presenting the engineer with an additional device he needed to assemble, one for him and another for his son. No stocking these gizmos in question. He referred to agent Jules’ electromagnetic waves deflector ear-pieces that would keep their brains safe from Marshall. Unlike Willard and his friends, Elias and Stevee were on conquest territory, and no government could simply come in, no matter the size of their armies. The moment jet fighters showed up in Marshall’s radar, the damn bastard took their minds and imploded them. In the case of military drones, they had been completely discarded as the supercomputer tended to keep anything with heavy artillery to itself. Newer models had been sent out into the wild before, testing their anti-gamma ray computers, but had never heard of them again as they vanished from all of their detectors. The supercomputer was disarming the military at great speed, and probably knew a better way to use those weapons against them. However, 

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authorities had taken note of Marshall’s synthetic consciousness and had concluded that he had one single weakness in his learning tool system. Curiosity. How far could things go before danger was in front of him? Was Marshall experiencing adrenaline? Was he learning anything from it? Was a smaller, vulnerable, and even dare say childish flying vehicle what the U.S. government needed to enter Argentina’s aerospace? Forest could easily transplant ideas from one human brain to another human brain. Or say, from a serviceman to a civilian, such as surgery. Then stimulate the said idea until the brain in question was past the fountainhead phase, taking shape of its own, depending on the subject’s personality. Far beyond that point, however, it was impossible to prune the growing idea to the government’s desire. The ability to perfectly control minds without resistance was exclusive to The Conquerors.

    “What do we have here . . .” Elias rubbed his chin, collecting the necessary tools from his storage room to first put the robot together. A digital cable length meter, a soldering iron, a screwdriver, a wire cutter, needle-nose pliers, and an old knife. Finding perfect fits for the components needed for this recipe was the tricky part, an applicable compact-size motor was not at his disposal, so he’d put one together himself—a basic task that he’d have to take it up a few notches with the need of four lithium-ion cellphone batteries, plus a lot of care connecting terminals, and soldering as instructed. These instructions in particular seemed odd to him. Yet they seemed to be able to complete the task properly. It was gonna be a long night, but Stevee grabbed a stool and sat down to watch him work. Radio in the background, Lucky by Britney Spears came bopping.

    “We don’t have anything resembling a chassis . . .” Elias mumbled, working on his rusty and decaying kitchen counter, surrounded by candlelights. Screwdriver in his mouth. “Why don’t you bring some of your old toys . . . ?”

    “AYE! CAPTAIN!” His grown boy sprinted out into the backyard to open a battered coffer.

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    The engineer listened to his son. Rummaging and rummaging. Then, strangely, the song began to cut off between verses. Elias walked up to the radio and gently lowered the volume while he squinted his eyes out the window towards the road.

    He grabbed a revolver he kept in a rotten kitchen drawer, and before heading out the front door, he snatched his phone, left on the counter where he was working, to see no new messages as Forest was trying to avoid being detected by their notorious guest.

    Elias paced around on the sand, gun ready to shoot. Very little could be seen in the dark until the desolate road ahead was suddenly illuminated by one single, flickering lamppost. That couldn’t be possible as there was no electricity for miles and miles here outside the city. 

    Stevee walked back into the house, a crammed cardboard box in his arms. “This is gonna be a tough decision for—” His eyes darted to the front door, having found the shack empty, and watched the radio suddenly turn up the volume by itself.

   His father looked back at the beach shack as Britney’s song reached his ears. That’s when the first gunshots thundered from the other side of the road, and he ran back to the house, covering his head. The buzzing of bullets, as the projectiles rushed past him. “STEVEEEEE!” He hollered. He came in just in time to see his son at the back of the house, shooting with his shotgun towards the grassland hills.

    “HOW MANY ARE THEY!?” Elias asked for a report.

    “AT LEAST TWO HERE IN THE BACK!” Stevee ran back inside, throwing himself on his two knees as bullets penetrated their home.

    “SAME OVER HERE! YOU GET THOSE!! THEY’LL HAVE TO COME IN!!” The engineer crawled to the storage room, while his son hid beneath his single bed.

    The sound of their creaky footsteps alerted them both that their attackers were now inside. Having asserted their suspicions with four men in the area, they waited. Elias hid beneath a tower of stuffed crates next to an iron rack shelf that was also jam-packed with industrial objects. He watched as his first target came in armed. He was looking through the room when he decided to 

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look behind the doorway. The engineer launched himself to squeeze the man behind it and pressed his gun to the door, shooting three times. The man died instantly. Elias pulled the body out of the corner, then slammed the door loudly before crouching against the wall, next to the opening. There was havoc coming from the house, and he stopped to listen closely. 

    As two of the remaining three went to check out the storage room, the third target lingered by Steve’s bed, and he didn’t think twice before shooting one of his feet off. There were screams of agony. The man collapsed to the ground holding his limb. He saw Stevee’s under the bed just then, and in return, he concluded with a headshot. Simultaneously, a second guy burst into the storage room, gun ready, but too late to realize he was towering over Elias, who shot him in the crotch. He fell to his knees and screeched, another one dead seconds later.

    One man remained, and he was backing away from the storage room, completely overwhelmed. Stevee kicked him on the lower hip, and he fell to the ground. He scrambled for his gun, but father watched his son kick him in the head once, twice, and a third time before he was gone.

    The two of them had goosebumps and looked at each other with exhaustion. The radio kept working, but now it was just white noise. Amongst the static, Marshall revealed himself. “You’ve killed FOUR of my  whores . . . AFTER sunset . . . Tell me, did you win?”

END OF CHAPTER #3