Private Patrick sat in a brittle chair. Wrists strapped tightly to the arms with makeshift irons of duct tape. He had long since given up the will to break free. He knew no matter how hard he tried, he would not be removed from the chair.
The room was cold, though in the middle of the desert and deep underground; a hidden catacomb chamber. The walls were brick and dirt. The floor was packed dust that resembled concrete. Dim light bounced off the tattered walls and danced on his face as the single oil lamp burned. Machine guns lined the wall to his left. A soldier’s extended arm piece. The rugged machines lay dormant, awaiting a purpose, whether good or bad.
“you don’t mess around with guns, Brian.” His father would lecture, “they are tools not toys. A man can use it with good intent, and cause grief.”
Before him was a short poker table; on it a large electrical circuit board adorned with numerous red and blue wires, weaving in and out of each other in an intricate pattern. Behind the table sat two men intently working on the circuits reading the codes written in words Patrick could not understand. Their hands moved swiftly from one cable to the next; flipping switches systematically as if performing a hard practiced and familiar dance. Each man possessed a pistol that they holstered on their right hip. Behind them paced a third man with a calm but intense gaze that rested on Patrick and did not move. His eyes were deep and dark. His shotgun held by the barrel in his left hand. Back and forth he paced, slow and consistent like the slow swing of an old grandfather clock’s pendulum.
The ceiling above him shook with the sound of footsteps and dust streamed down onto his face. He exhaled an exasperated cough, and attempted to suppress a sneeze. The man quit his pace for a moment’s time to squint his eyes at Patrick then continued his walk. Private Patrick shook his dust covered face to rid himself of the chalky sand, squinting and scrunching his nose to relieve himself of an itch.
An alarm sounded above them, faint and distant. Feet ran about. A loud far-off voice gave orders he could not make out. He could hear men rushing about in the room above. Moments later he heard the low creak of a thick cedar door behind him. The same commanding voice spoke,
“ah right. Now I haf some questions to aks.” A young man about the same age as Private Patrick walked into view. He had dark skin, sweat on his brow and swung his gun by his side. He had a disturbing look of war upon his face. The pacing man stood in salute to the young man then handed him tissue. Following in sync with him, the two other men stood up quickly and saluted him as well. The young man took the tissue and patted his forehead, waded it up and threw it in the trash to join shards of broken china and other useless junk. The young man looked them over for a minute and then turned to face Patrick saying nothing to them. When the men returned to their work, he said “Goo wark men,” then to Patrick, “shoo may call me Mack. And shoo will answer my questions. Or, my men may take ofer far me. Clear?” Mack said in a calm quiet voice.
“I will certainly try” said private Patrick equally as calm, though he felt very afraid. Did anyone know where he was?
“Who are shoo?” asked Mack
“Private Patrick”
“First off, Mr. Patrick,” started Mack, “what did Michael Jackson do?” Patrick almost laughed out loud at the absurdness of the question, “he es Pop King! Shoo know dis.”
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understa— ”Mack snapped his fingers at one of the men. He came and wrapped a thin metal wire under his chin and over both of his ears.
“Do not preten shoo do not know! He es outsider! Shoo make heem wear a glof on one hand all de time. He has to wear a mask ofer hees face all de time! shoo make him color his skin white because he es a black man. I wan to know why! What has Michael Jackson done to shoo?” Mack demanded.
Was Mack really taking him prisoner to ask him questions about Michael Jackson’s lifestyle? He forced his thin patience to stretch. “He has a disease, and so he has to wear a veil over his face. He isn’t an outcast.”
“I af heard of no such diseas.”
“He did it to himself.”
“No! Shoo did it to heem!”
“No one did it to him, he made a choice. You’ve misunderstood.”
“No he had no choice. America outcast heem because he es a colored man! He es Pop King!”
“In America, people can make choices. He made a choice to alter himself, and so—” Mack snapped his fingers once again.
A shooting pain stretched the length of Patrick’s body reaching every nerve. The jolt caused him to serge. He lost all muscle control. The pain burned his ears and neck. His teeth clenched, the heat intensified in his brain. Ready to give up, the pain finally subsided.
“Did dat hurt shoo, Mr. Patrick?” asked Mack, once again strangely calm.
“yes” answered Patrick, heaving.
“Now, to some business. I know dat shoo can answer dis question truffully.” Mack paused for a minute to find a way to best phrase his question, “es shoor quadrant formed an alliance with de Rebels?” Patrick thought hard, he had forgotten who the Rebels were, where he was stationed with them, where they were going, or even where he was captured.
“I do not know.” he answered
“again, Mr. Patrick, you have failed. I haf pitty on shoo, so will aks again. Where is shoor quadrant and de Rebels traveling to? I know dey must haf formed an alliance.”
“I do not know.” he answered. The jolting shock shot up his spine once again. The second time was less shocking. Though, his nerves were more sensitive and the pain increased far more rapidly. His jaw clenched. The pain went on for what seemed like forever, and then it stopped.
“Do shoo haf a family at home, Mr. Patrick?”
“yes.” Patrick coughted
“Please, tell me about dem. I am interested to know about shoo.”
“I have a wife and a baby girl at home. My wife’s name is Mary. My baby girl’s name is Alani, she’s five months old. I’ve only seen her once, but I keep her with me at all times.” He glanced down at his chest, “would you like to see them? There’s a picture of them in the pocket inside my jacket.”
“yes.” Mack said, he stepped forward and retrieved the picture of Mary and Alani gently. He studied them longingly. “Dey are fery beautiful. Shoo are lucky, Mr. Patrick.” Mack put the picture back in its pocket carefully.
“Thank you. I miss them very much.”
“Yes, I am sure shoo do. Shoo know, Mr. Patrick, we now haf somesing in common wit eash oder. We are bof fathers. I haf a family too, shoo know. My wife’s name es Shantii. I had a son. He was tree monts old. But shoo see, he es dead now. An my wife too.” Above them an explosion sounded. “dey are dead because shoo killed dem.” A sick feeling erupted within Patrick. He had never killed an innocent man, let alone a woman or child. It’s slaughter.
“you are wrong, I did no such thing.”
“Shoo Americans killed my family. My own home was bombed by shoor people. An explosion troo de wall. A beam fell on my son while he was sleeping in hees bed. Alone. Tree monts old, and he die. Alone! My wife killed instantly from explosion.” Scenes flashed through Patrick’s mind of his own wife and daughter.
He watched his lovely wife, Mary, sit in the kitchen of their new home alone, talking innocently and cheerfully on the phone. Fresh flowers from their yard lay thoughtfully arranged on the table. No problem existed. He reached out, yelling at her to get out of the house. He could not save his precious wife. He could not move, no sound came from his mouth. An explosion scorched the house, blowing away the whole wall. His wife lay beneath the rubble, burned and unrecognizable.
He was his sweet Alani sleeping soundly in her bed; wrapped up in her blanket awkwardly adorned in Easter Eggs. Suddenly the explosion resounded and the ceiling collapsed in and crushed his sleeping treasure. He began to weep as Mack told his story.
“Shoo see, shoo haf a family to go home to, Mr. Patrick,” Mack said, subconsciously tapping his finger on the trigger of his gun, “but my family is slaughtered in my own home, in der own beds.”
Private Patrick let the tears flood down his dirty face leaving narrow trails on his cheeks.
“I am sorry.” He said, “that should never have happened.” Rapid gunfire sounded above them. Shaken dirt fell from the ceiling.
“No!” Mack raged, “shoo cannot be sorry to me. Shoo haf no idea de pain it has caused me! Shoo cannot know!” Mack reached for a vat of oil. On of the other men rushed to his aid. They forced Private Patrick’s mouth open and shoved his own fist in his mouth to keep it open. Mack poured the oil down Patrick’s throat. The poison filled his stomach and filtered into his lungs quickly. He couldn’t breath. He choked and coughed in protest and bit down on his own hand trying to close his mouth. He began to bleed. Soon the door burst open. It was Jerry from his Quadrant, gun in hand. He shot each man in the knee, immobilizing them. He and three other men from the Rebellion rushed in the room yelling. Jerry paced over to Patrick’s aid.
“Brian!” Jerry shouted through the doorway, “Buddy, are you alright? What did they do to you?” he asked hurrying to cut the wire off his throat and the tape off his wrists. Jerry grabbed behind Patrick’s left arm and helped him to his feet. He stepped over to Mack who was sitting against the wall, whose gun was across the room.
“Yeah I’m okay” Private Patrick coughed and threw up oil, painting the wall in black.
“Take care of this guy, Brian. I wanna get you outa here!” Jerry said impatiently, thrusting the nearest gun into Patrick’s hands who pointed it at Mack.
Private Patrick stood there, gun in hand aimed at Mack’s head. Time stopped. Mack did nothing, he just sat there, heaving deep breaths, bloodied knee and back against the wall. Patrick stood in silence staring at Mack. He lowered his weapon.
“It’s all just been a big misunderstanding.” He said to everyone in the room. He holstered his gun and walked out of the room.