Birth of a Dark Nation (2 page)

"I never thought we'd capture one of them,"
he said. "They're so few in number. So strong. So fast."

"So smart," his wife added. "To live among
them all these years and never get discovered."

"We'll do that again. Sasha!" he barked at
his servant.

"Yes, sir?"

"Did you draw his blood?"

"Yes, sir. The vials for the week are
downstairs, in the vault, waiting for pick-up."

"Did he put up much of a fight?"

"Yes, sir. But Malcolm and Andre restrained
him."

"Very good," he said. "You'll do this every
other day until otherwise instructed. He'll get used to the
routine." He walked toward his wife and exhaled. "As long as we
keep this one alive, we'll figure out how they do it."

"He'll never talk. His kind is defiant."

"His DNA will talk for him," the husband
said, addressing the angry young man on the bed. "And then we won't
have any more use for you."

"Come to bed, darling. It's almost
sunrise."

The man and his wife calmly but quickly left
the room. The servants were left to tend to the patient before the
sun rose.

The brown haired white woman and the dark
black man smoothed out the wrinkles in the sheets and tightened the
restraints on the prisoner's hands and feet.

"This is supposed to be one of their high
holy days, too," Andre said.

"You know a lot about them," Sasha
replied.

"Yeah. I make them my business."

The man in bondage stirred. His eyes softened
and pleaded for mercy. His breaths were rapid.

"Poor thing," she said.

"I've got the morphine."

He found a vein and injected the ordinarily
deadly dose of morphine deep into the prisoner's body. The prisoner
tried to scream, emitting only sickening muffled wails from behind
the gag. The prisoner's skin healed itself shortly after the
injection was done. In only a few moments, his eyes fluttered
closed.

"This should have him out for the day," Andre
said. He removed the gag from the prisoner's mouth.

"Let's go," Sasha said.

"Wait," he said. He reached into his pocket
and produced a strand of green and white beads. He carefully placed
them under the prisoner's pillow.

"Stay strong, brother," he whispered.

They left, turning endless locks on the other
side of the door. As the sun came up over Rock Creek Park, the
prisoner felt the thinnest of rays pierce the shade of the sole
window in the room. Sunlight slashed all the way across the room,
almost touching his hand. He knew it was there, but he was too weak
to grasp it.

I was always the first person in the office
because I didn't want to have to walk past the other idiots I
worked with. It was much better on me and everyone else if I just
came in first, unlocked everything, and settled into my little
corner of Magdalene House without having to worry myself with small
talk. On paper, we were a social service organization for HIV
positive women. In reality, we were the place that social workers
went to die.

I was their IT manager, which meant I had to
show old ladies how to reboot their computers and empty their spam
folders.

Thirty years old, a computer science degree
from Syracuse, and this is where I was. Trapped.

Magdalene House was located in the Northeast
quadrant of DC, in a neighborhood which hadn't decided yet whether
it would be sleepy and suburban or gritty and blighted. Rhode
Island Avenue had storefront churches and liquor stores dotting
each corner, with Chinese food carry outs and beauty salons in
between.

There weren't many trees in this
neighborhood, at least not on the main street. Just bare sidewalks.
In the summer months, there were always pockets of kids and young
adults loitering about. They were loud, but usually harmless.

Magdalene House was located just off Rhode
Island Avenue, on 22
^nd
Street. But in contrast to Rhode
Island Avenue's bustle, 22nd Street was quiet, tree-lined, and
purely residential. The row houses were short, wide, and spacious.
The yards were small in the front, but always well-manicured. This
was not the type of neighborhood that had neighbors who didn't give
a damn about appearances. And just because they were in "the hood"
didn't mean they were poor, or couldn't afford to maintain their
homes.

So, even though Magdalene House was nestled
in an area of Ward 5 that was no stranger to prostitutes and drug
dealers, it was still clear that if they wandered into the
residences on 22
^nd
Street, they would not be welcome
(unless, of course, they were visiting their own grandparents).

DC was weird that way. The city was nothing
at all like Hamilton, the small New York town where I grew up.

Between 8 a.m. and 10 a.m., I was the only
one at work. The official hours of the office were 10 a.m. to 6
p.m., but since I didn't provide any direct service to clients, I
could work an earlier shift and be home in time for the evening
news.

I didn't hate my entire office, though. Over
the years, I had made two good friends there: Steve and Cissy.

Steven Waller was a tall, slim man in his
early fifties with a bald head and a gray beard. He had a soft,
raspy voice like Harry Belafonte. You couldn't tell him that he
wasn't still pimpin' after all these years. His eyes seemed to
twinkle when he talked. That twinkle wasn't enough to blind his two
ex-wives to his cat-daddy ways, so he was resigned to enjoying
himself on the singles scene once more.

Cecilia Flint had been known as Cissy among
her friends and family for most of her forty years. She was short
and buxom with curly blond hair that often fell into her eyes. She
had a husband and a daughter at home and she took no shit from them
or anyone else in her immediate vicinity.

About two and a half hours into the day,
Cissy and Steve would usually stroll in at the same time, either
with breakfast to share or with car keys in hand, eager to take a
short trip to a diner or coffee shop.

This time, Steve brought the breakfast, which
was good because Cissy was always trying to sneak some healthy shit
into the mix, as if we really gave a damn. Steve knew what I really
liked.

"Scrambled eggs with cheese, home fries,
grits, and bacon, like you like it," he announced, putting my
Styrofoam container in front of me.

"Perfect," I said. "How much I owe you?"
Steve put his hand up, closed his eyes, and vigorously shook his
head.

"Thanks, man!" I smiled. We did that for each
other all the time. Sometimes it would be my turn; sometimes it was
Steve or Cissy. We dug into our food and immediately began our
gripe session. We sat in Cissy's office, which was adorned with
photos of her husband and daughter.

"So what's new?" I asked.

"Well, I tried to go to a conference in
Nashville, but Ernie said no," Cissy huffed.

"Figures," I said.

"I don't know why he won't let us be great.
Seems like no matter where I work, the wrong people are in charge,"
Steve said.

"Does he even have a degree?" Cissy
asked.

"His resume says so," Steve said.

"I'm sure he bought one from someplace. There
are diploma mills all over the internet," I theorized.

"God, I hate this place! I wish the economy
wasn't so bad; I would leave today," Steve said.

"But the clients are worth it," Cissy said
firmly.

"I can't believe the board is okay with this
guy," I said.

"They're all his friends. They'll never fire
him," Steve said.

"So what are we going to do?" I asked. Cissy
shrugged.

"You can do computer work anywhere. You tell
me what you're going to do."

"I don't know, Cissy. I just want to work
someplace where I can make a difference."

"You've been here almost four years now. What
difference have you made? I mean you basically back up the servers.
How does that help women with AIDS?"

"Damn, Cissy."

"I'm not trying to be mean, honey. But you
are still young and have a lot of good ideas. You don't have to
work here if you don't want to. You've got a lot of executive
leadership potential."

"She's right," Steve added. "You've got some
of the best ideas in the building, but Ernie's dumb ass…"

"I'm starting to think Ernie's last name is
'dumb ass' for real," I said.

"Might as well be. We are up shit's creek
here and nobody is doing anything about it."

I shrugged.

"Well, let me know when y'all have a plan
together. I'll support it." I stood up to leave Cissy's office.

"That's it?" Steve asked.

"I don't know what else I can do. We're all
stuck in crappy jobs at a mediocre organization with a shitty boss
and a negligent board of directors. What can I do other than apply
for a new job?"

"It makes me sad that this place has robbed
you of your passion."

"Passion?" I laughed. "Don't worry about me.
I'm going to be okay. But if y'all will excuse me, I'm going to run
to Dollar General and get me a soda. Want anything?"

My coworkers shook their heads. I headed out
the door and jogged across the street during a rare break in the
heavy Rhode Island Avenue traffic.

This dude who I saw from time to time was
sitting on the steps of the Masonic hall, casually looking in my
direction. I had conditioned myself not to notice the boys on the
street. Even after four years, I wasn't as comfortable in Woodridge
as I was in my little corner of Uptown, where I'd lived since
moving to DC. I kept my distance.

It was hot. I hated the summer with a
passion. I'd gained so much weight since college and it seemed like
the summer heat made me more aware of myself. Sweat rolled off my
neck and down my chest, pausing at my stomach as if to mock its
ever-expanding roundness.

I had never been a small guy, but the
preceding few years had been incredibly sedentary for me. I really
needed to join a gym, but I was afraid that the moment I did so,
I'd lose my job and then not be able to afford it.

Excuses.

I just didn't feel like doing anything about
it.

I bought my Sprite Zero and exited the store.
I could see the profile of the guy sitting in front of the Masonic
hall more clearly. He had on a light gray t-shirt with a plain
black book bag, jean shorts, plain black tennis shoes, and short
white socks. His long dreadlocks came past his broad, strong
shoulders. His face was a living dichotomy: the roundness of his
cheeks made him appear youthful and innocent, but his eyes were
somehow old beyond his years, and his eyebrows and nose converged
into acute angles, making me unsure whether he was truly sinister
or just born looking suspicious.

He saw me looking.

"Aye, I got some music. Got some DVDs," he
announced.

"What?" I asked, stopping in front of his
stoop.

"I got some music… Old school hip-hop, go-go,
R&B. Whatever you want. And some movies. Got that comedy shit,
shit that's in theaters now. I got you."

This nigga was trying to sell me bootleg
merchandise. I hadn't been hit up by a bootleg man in years. With
all the ways to get free music on the Internet-legally or not-I was
taken aback by his offer.

I looked at his face and time stopped. Now
that I could see him full on, I saw the depths of his beauty. He
wasn't plain at all, nor was he sinister. He had impossibly dark
eyes and a smooth, dark brown face. His dreadlocks crowned him
perfectly.

"I don't need any music," I said, suddenly
full of confidence. "But I'll tell you what-find me some movies
that are stronger than an R rating, and we can talk."

He looked at me quizzically.

"Oh…you mean you want some of them nasty
movies? Some triple X?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"I gotchu. Where you be at?"

"I work across the street at Magdalene."

"Aight bet. I'ma be back through here with
some flicks on Friday, aight?"

"Bet," I replied. I jogged back across the
busy street.

What was I doing? Did I really just arrange
for my friendly neighborhood bootleg man to bring me some X-rated
movies in front of my job?

Yes. I did.

He was kind of cute though. Might be nice to
see him again. And I was somewhat of a connoisseur of pornography,
so why not? Straight, gay, whatever—I just liked porn. Not like
there was much else to do with my free time.

~

Toward the end of the day, I got notification
of an event I had put on my calendar. The Syracuse alumni chapter
in DC was putting on another one of their happy hours downtown. I
didn't really want to go, but I didn't have any reason not to.
Maybe I could do some networking or something. Or maybe find a
dude.

I looked very much like an IT professional
that evening. Navy blue polo shirt and khaki pants. Nothing
special. I looked like everybody else coming from work on the train
I took to get to Gallery Place.

I exited the train right by the humongous
Chinatown arch extending over H Street. Chinatown is like a tiny
version of Times Square. Lights and LED signs blink all over the
place and the streets are clogged with tourists toting digital SLR
cameras they never take off automatic mode.

The happy hour was at this Spanish tapas
place. A tall, bald white guy dressed in his best business casual
with an Orangemen button on his shirt shook my hand and asked me
when I graduated. I told him and he smiled, noting that he'd never
seen me at a function before. I said I normally didn't come, but I
figure I might as well see what it was all about. He smirked.

The Syracuse folk had an area in the back
sectioned off with orange balloons. I sat at the furthest corner
table and looked at the "Syracuse Specials," as they were called. I
ordered some kind of apple and walnut salad and something with
scallops. They were cheap.