The Lover's Parable Through A Seven World Journey (25 page)

With each step further into the city, the smell of death grew more intense. Dry-heaving under the stench, Sofia could do little to keep her gag reflex under control and the tears from continuously pouring from her eyes. Filled with the decaying pieces of flesh and bone, the streets’ edges were scenes of carnage. Dried blood had soaked into the surrounding dirt and rock, giving a bizarre crimson color to the city’s pathways.

Having created an invisible bubble around the two travelers, the women of the town were purposefully keeping their distance: everywhere John and Sofia moved, the throng would simultaneously shift equidistant away, keeping an arm’s length between them at all times.

Contrary to the behavior of the women, the male youth were star struck by their presence. They trailed closely behind the two strangers, enviously eyeing the weapons slung across their backs. The children pointed at them and smiled. And on several occasions a few of them nearly ventured into the invisible sphere only to be hindered by the nearest apathetic adult. None of the boys spoke a single word to them. They just watched and followed with an almost eerie reverence that bordered on worship.

Free to wander wherever they desired, it wasn’t long in their journeying through the congested streets before Sofia and John realized that they had become completely lost. Isolated from the indigenous population, separated as outcasts, there was no way to tell if they could be understood through verbal communication, as none of the adults exhibited the slightest hint of recognizing their existence.

Approaching another crowded intersection, and perplexed by the circumstances at hand, they made their way to one of the street’s corners where a cardboard overhang looked to provide some shade. Stepping up a crumbling, concrete slab underneath it, they leaned back against the plywood dwelling that faced into the throng. In accordance with the treatment that they had been receiving, the occupiers of the structure immediately separated themselves from the two sojourners, covering the nearby windows with old, stained cloths.

As the two of them began to take their rest in the cool of the building’s shadow, the rumbling of a wheeled transporter, its horn rhythmically belching out to a continual series of faint screams and cries, could be heard somewhere in the distance making its way towards their position.

“Do you hear that?” Sofia asked. “That doesn’t sound good. Maybe we should find a place to hide.”

“Let’s see what it is first,” John said, standing upon his tiptoes, attempting to catch a glimpse of the vehicle over the heads of the masses.

From his perspective, the source of the commotion was causing a dispersion of the crowds. Basket-burdened heads were moving aside in rapid succession within a cloud of wailing children and distorted banter.

Climbing up a rusty pole that protruded from the dry soil supporting the wall of the nearby building, John could see the women parting ways around a speeding military transporter. Scurrying out of its path, the throng was behaving as water does, separating before and reuniting behind, just as when a man moves his hand through a pond’s glassy surface.

The blaring of the machine’s horn was putting the fear into the populace as the masses unhesitatingly gave the right-of-way to the vehicle that was rumbling through it. Intermittently making contact with some of the women, the driver appeared to have little regards for the lives of the citizenry. Bouncing off the thick metal of the vehicle’s front end like rag dolls, lifelessly hurtling to the ground in puffs of dust, the bodies fell twisted and tortuous on the hard, dirt road. The contents of their baskets were left in the vehicle’s wake, a temporary memorial to the insignificant existences of the fallen women. As the machine moved past, the crowds unflinchingly regrouped, continuing on with their former
business.

The vehicle was drawing within a distance for clear sight, and John could see that the transporter was identical to the Security vehicles of Labor, with the exception of its purplish-red stained grill and headlamps, and the manned, long-barreled, automatic weapon mounted on its rooftop. It was fast making its way towards the intersection below him. Scanning about for a place for him and Sofia to run, John could see that there was nowhere to hide, especially due to the fact that the women would not allow them to blend in with their company.

“It looks like the Security’s heading our way,” he said, hopping down and taking Sofia by the arm, escorting her back into the throng.

“What? The Security? Here?” she questioned.

Ignoring her words, John led Sofia into the middle of the crossroads where the concentration of the citizenry was the heaviest. The vehicle was closing in, and he was at a loss as to what he should do next.

“What are we going to do?” Sofia called out to him.

“Just follow me,” he unintentionally snapped at her under the duress of the moment.

As the vehicle entered the intersection, the women began pushing against one another in order to remove themselves from its destructive path. Rushing Sofia into the masses, John was hoping to buy them a little more time before the women realized that the couple had delineated from their demeaning
bubble
.

For the moment they were concealed within the hordes of panicking women as the armored body of the vehicle rushed by with its trail of death left in its wake. Continuing on its straight course, the crowds rapidly recovered from the trauma, swallowing the vehicle up at the rear. As the
bubble
suddenly began forming around the two foreigners, the rooftop gunner, disappearing behind the closing wall of baskets, turned around, and for one fleeting moment he met John eye-to-eye.

As the transporter exited the intersection John could hear its tires grinding to a halt, tearing into the thick crumbling dirt, straining under the burdening weight of its metallic shell. The idling vehicle was engulfed in the growing dust cloud that it had stirred up. Spreading out like a blanket over the basket-covered heads of the women that surrounded it, the dispersed light of the Savior gave the appearance of elongated spokes of a golden wheel reflecting its image off the surface of a shimmering
pool.

Attempting to remain anonymous, John began to steer Sofia out of the intersection. But his plan was shuttered by the sudden, thundering burst of gunfire that sent the peoples scrambling to clear the streets. Falling to their knees at the edges of the road, the women covered their heads, shielding themselves with their arms. The broken baskets and produce littering the street, brought fruit and other raw items rolling at the feet of John and Sofia, who now stood alone, staring up the barrel of the transporter’s gun.

Crying children and weeping, whimpering women huddled close together against the walls of the street’s buildings, while John and Sofia woefully held their position, desperately trying to maintain a neutral stance. They were hoping to avoid provoking the men of Security to violence.

“Drop your weapons,” a voice boomed through the vehicle’s side-mounted speakers, echoing throughout the walls of the city.

Slowly reaching over their shoulders, the young couple slid the rifle slings over their heads, dropping their weapons upon the ground, followed by the side arms that hugged their thighs. Cautiously reaching into his pocket, John removed his knife, letting it fall to the dust at his feet.

“Empty the rest of your pockets into a single pile in front of you. Then, turn your pockets inside out,” the voice burst out.

Following the official’s orders, they were soon standing before a small heap of items. These were the few belongings that they had reserved for, what should have been, the final leg of their journey back on Labor: ammunition, food, the handheld computer, the little black book and a few odds and ends. There would be nothing left in their possession now were it not for the clothes that they
wore.

“Take two steps back and drop to your knees, placing your hands on top of your heads,” the voice commanded.

Distancing themselves from their last few remnants, John and Sofia eased down to the ground, the hot soil under their knees painfully pressing into their skin. Clouds of dust kicked up into the air by the wind as the door of the transporter drew open. A group of heavily armored men descended from the rear compartment, guns drawn, heads helmeted, eyes glassed over by their reflective goggles. They were calculating and cold, only moving under the hand-initiated queues of their lead officer.

As the agents were closing in on them, John knew that soon he and Sofia would be separated. He hung his head low, ashamed and defeated in spirit.

“Sofia,” he whispered.

But she did not answer. Eyes closed and silent as death, the tears dripping off the ends of her cheeks were speaking for her.

With the barrels of the Security’s carbines pointed at their heads, the two wanderers were forced to lie face down upon the street, the taste of the soil’s dust strong and bitter in their mouths. The metal cuffs ratcheted firmly around their wrists, securing their hands behind their backs, leaving them helplessly at the mercy of their captors as they lay under the burning eye of the Savior
above.

John was nearly a half-meter away from the pile of their belongings. He watched a Security agent tossing the items, one-by-one, into a black canvas sack. Curiously eyeing the handheld computer before dropping it into the bag, the agent turned his masked face toward John. Fearful for their lives John immediately removed eye contact from the man.

From one of the side streets that crossed the intersection, the rumbling commotion of another approaching transporter was making its way towards their position. Distant gunfire, followed by women wailing and screaming, began to rise throughout the distal parts of the city.

“We’ve captured two of them. Deserters from Red, I’m assuming by their uniforms,” the Commander spoke into the mouthpiece that wrapped around the side of his head, attaching at the helmet’s orifice beside his ear. “Yes, sir… Affirmative… That’s affirmative. No, sir, we’re processing some of them on the north end. ETA: one hundred twenty minutes. Roger that. Out.”

Sofia was still shutting the external world out of her mind. John could see that she was mentally distancing herself from the horrors of their captivity by removing all traces of reality. It was the only thing she could do to cope with their terrible predicament. With his face to the ground, he too closed his eyes, hoping to walk with Sofia in their forested home on Labor, throwing away all the evils that he had brought upon them. The whispering of the Security officials amongst themselves was an incomprehensible wind blowing about the canals of his ears. What it was they were communicating between one another was of no consequence to him. John knew that he and Sofia were going to be sent back to the City, back to their home planet. They would never see each other
again.

The crunching of dirt under the feet of several men brought John’s eyes to a meeting with their black boots as he and Sofia were hoisted up to their feet.

“Two detainees. Captain wants them separated during transport,” one of the agents said into his microphone.

Motioning to the Commander, the Security official that had just finished bagging their property reopened the sack. Extracting out the handheld machine, he handed it over to his superior. The Commander looked it over and made a quick glance towards John and Sofia before dropping it back into the bag. Leaning his head beside the agent, he made an inaudible verbalization to which both men immediately cast their sights back at the young couple before departing from one another.

Speeding into the middle of the intersection, the second armored transporter arrived in a trail of dust. Its freshly adorned grill was covered over with crimson splashes and hair-tangled flesh.

Exiting the vehicle, several agents approached the young couple. Assuming their duties from the Commanding Officer, they set about forcing John and Sofia upon two separate paths. Escorted to the first vehicle, John watched with heartfelt suffering as Sofia, her chin upon her chest, willingly obeyed their orders. Struggling to make the climb with her hands bound to her back, the steep ramp at the rear of the machine was a challenge for her petite frame. Disappearing into the blackness of the transporter’s personnel compartment, she was followed closely by her captors.

With his prisoner quarters idling just ahead, John conspicuously gazed around at the cowering women and children as he stepped over the bloodied body of one of the transporter’s victims. Passing by the closing doors of Sofia’s wheeled cell, the men of Security behaved mysteriously, communicating sometimes through their microphones, but mostly in hand gestures and whispers.

Nearing the vehicle ahead, John watched as its steel ramp extended from its underside by the influence of a hidden motor and its grinding gears. The rear door simultaneously opened upwards, revealing the dark mouth to which he would soon be subjected.

Behind him, Sofia’s transporter was turning itself about in the middle of the intersection. John attempted to look back, but was hindered by a gloved hand that grabbed him by the face, preventing him from engaging in even that simple act.

With the light of the Savior reflecting off the soil and into the fully open cabin of the transporter, the interior of the vehicle was dimly illuminated. Its walls were lined with a single, metal bench seat that extended along its entirety. He could see that it was padded over with a thin layer of plastic-covered foam that protruded through the cracks and tears created under its years of abuse. The floor was stained in a brownish-red hue that was putrid in odor, releasing an iron taste upon the tongue that intensified with each
breath.

Entering in, and compelled under threat to take a seat in the middle of one of the benches, John could see the dark, splattered liquid along the ceiling and walls that had dried in variously sized patterns and drippings, like bizarre tears running down a rusted face. He was cognizant of the fact that he was not the first prisoner to enter into the vehicle’s belly.