The Lover's Parable Through A Seven World Journey (34 page)

Sitting on a wooden box in the corner of the room breastfeeding her child, Maryanne rocked back and forth with quiet contentment. Yet, with the bags under her eyes, she seemed so exhausted.

As another contraction pulled at the underside of Sofia’s abdomen, she took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Concentrating her mind’s eye on the forests of Labor, she walked herself through the tall grass and blooming flowers, holding hands with her dear friend, John. She could almost hear his voice, as real as the audible thumping of her heart pounding in her ears. The heavy aromatic fragrance of life that only existed in that wilderness was so vivid that she began to feel the soreness around her sinuses as she held back the desire to cry.

As the pain subsided, she opened her eyes to the reality of the present world.

“Is it as bad as it looks… the pain, I mean?” Sofia asked.

Maryanne removed the sleeping child’s mouth from her chest and covered herself while continuing the soothing rocking motion of the baby that she held in her arms.

“I honestly don’t know how to describe what it’s like,” she said. “During the birth, I guess you could say that your whole being is pain, there’s no way to escape it… you just hurt. But, after your little one enters the world, it’s gone, as if it never existed. You’ll look at that child, with its cord still connected to you, and its purple skin,” she laughed. “You’ll be so happy you won’t even consider the suffering that you’d just gone through.”

To Sofia, Maryanne’s words seemed so few, yet they were always so thoughtful. Her soft-spoken spirit was a blessed comfort. She was thankful that Providence had brought them together. But the anxiety she was experiencing from the impending birth, and the lost hope of ever hearing from John again, was still an overwhelming burden on her shoulders.

“I’m so glad you’ll be with me on that day, Mary, because I’m so scared,” Sofia confided.

Seeing the tears welling up in Sofia’s eyes, Maryanne pulled herself up from her chair. Walking over to her, she took a seat beside her on the cot. Leaning against her, Sofia placed her head upon Maryanne’s shoulder. The high-pitched sighs that fell from the blanket-bundled child sleeping upon Maryanne’s lap were a soothing relief. She wanted to accept the fact that there would not be any more news forthcoming from Maryanne’s contact, Stephen, regarding John’s whereabouts and his well being, but she could not give up the hope that they would some day be together.

The two women continued to sit beside one another until late into the night without a word being spoken. Sometimes silence can communicate better than words.

The transporter rumbled under the roaring of the engines as its thrusters fought against the incoming planet’s gravitational pull. With his rifle slung over his shoulder, John stood among the thousands of Sweep Team members packed into the various levels of the aircraft, awaiting their touchdown on planet Red. Dressed in their black and red fatigues, they were weighed down under their heavily armored chest plates and
helmets.

Thirty-eight weeks of hell. Thirty-eight weeks of death. John could feel the anxiety in his gut, wondering what he was going to find once the doors swung open and they hit the dirt. If all the carnage of the past nine months was leading up to this, John knew that there were no deserters escaping from the violent storm that he was about to bring in.

Looking about at the mirrored images of his own masked visage reflecting off the face protectors adorned on all the members of his exclusive society, John could sense by the shuffling of feet and the rubbing of fingers that they were feeling the same anticipatory rage inside. None of them would have chosen this kind of life for themselves. It had to be forced upon them, just as it was upon him… and someone had to pay for it.

Pulling at the bright, red fruit growing off the vine in the shadows of her lantern during the cool, early morning, Sofia doubled over under the stretching pain squeezing her around the abdomen. Seeing her in such an immediate distress, Maryanne dropped her basket, running through the orchard to be by her side.

“What’s the matter, dear? Are you okay?” she asked, rubbing her back.

“The pain keeps getting worse, Mary. It’s hard to breathe when it comes,” Sofia said as the pain began to subside.

Waving for help from the other women in their produce gathering party, Maryanne began to make arrangements for her and Sofia’s departure. Leaving their baskets in the care of their fellow workers, she placed Sofia’s arm over her own shoulders, picked up the rusty lamp by its swiveling handle and began leading her in the first of many steps in their long walk home.

The deafening noise of the engines was reaching its peak, and contact with the surface was imminent. The Simulator’s killing fields were about to be put to the test.

With his knees buckling under the strain of landing, John bumped up against several of the Sweep members among which he was surrounded. There were no words spoken. They were like robots, cold and without emotion.

The hydraulic locks of the ship’s hull began to release. The mouth of the door’s hubs lifted from their sockets. The anxiousness to get on with the work was apparent in the posturing of every man present.

The ceiling door opened above, and the Sweep agents from the upper decks began descending the ladder, preparing to embark on their murderous missions. The clanking of their boots against the metal rungs brought back memories of Sofia, when the two of them had ascended that identical ladder several months prior. He had followed her through the top door and, upon closing its hatch, he held her… John immediately quashed the thought. It was too painful. Pain needed to be turned to hate. Hate was easier to deal with.

The red sand blowing in from the opening under the rising, bay door gathered at their feet. Grinding it under the toe of his boot, John felt the familiarity of being in the Simulator, as it had apparently been filled with the Red planet’s exported gravel, adding to its pre-planned realism.

The bars of light sifting through the silhouetted figures standing in front of him, waiting to exit the ship, were much too bright and unnaturally white to be falling from the Great Star in the sky. As the agents began to make their way out the door, the joints of John’s fingers cracked under the sweating grip by which he held his rifle.

Moving at a crawling pace towards the exit, he could now see that the brightness was coming from the operating base’s mounted lamps, just as he had suspected. Descending the ramp to gather with the troops of Sweepers outside, he took a moment to look to the sky above: it was filled with stars.

The base appeared to be situated on a steep hilltop or relatively short mountain. But, due to the surrounding walls, John was unable to see what was happening outside of the installation. Thumping explosions vibrated in the hollow of his chest, and the war cries and machine gun fire of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of men and women could be heard rising from the valley
below.

Forced into a single file line, the agents were separated into various sized parties before being escorted outside of the compound. John was assigned to a four-man squad led by one Sergeant Madison. The other two men, Goldman and Roberts, were as equally unknown to John as was his squad leader. As all the men were dressed in full gear, there were no discerning features to distinguish one man from another, with the exception of the nametags embroidered on their chests.

Yelling to the Sergeant through the microphone that he wore across his neck, a lower ranked officer was barking out orders, muffled and incomprehensible due to the thundering blasts from the valley. According to the officer’s hand gestures and the movements of his lips, they were being assigned to an off-road transporter that was located in the Security Zone approximately one hundred meters downhill.

Motioning with his rifle for their attention and cooperation, the Sergeant directed his men to receive his attention. John and the other two men fell in line in front of him.

“We’re assigned to watch for deserters from above the Valley of Blood. Anything more than a three or four-man group we call in for further orders, otherwise, it’s hunting time,” he said through their earpieces.

Sofia fell to her knees just outside of the entrance to the apartment. Groaning under the pain, Maryanne huddled over her, doing her best to comfort her during her periods of suffering.

As she regained her composure with the easing of the stress, she took a deep breath and stepped inside. The musty odor of death was more pronounced than ever, and having become accustomed to it over the past several months, Sofia was surprised to find her sense of smell so heightened, and her propensity towards nausea so easily triggered. The stairs leading to their room above seemed so steep and uninviting, but the cot waiting for her on the other side of the door, despite all its shortcomings, would be a wonderful comfort.

After a dreadfully difficult time of conquering the stairwell, they finally reached their room. Falling onto its semi-soft springs, Sofia lifted her legs onto the bed. She attempted to relax, but she felt the tugging pains beginning all over again.

The mountaintop upon which their base was situated was steeper and higher than the ones below, and gave a full view of the entire battleground. As they made their way to the base’s edge, John and his assigned team were finally able to see the war being fought firsthand. The Valley of Blood appeared to be divided into two distinct areas. It was, according to the deaths John was witnessing, living up to its name.

Two military bases were situated on the ridges of two opposing ranges of steep, rocky hills, each with their own respective, over-active, air transporter systems. They faced one another from across an open wasteland by approximately four thousand meters. Watching from his vantage point was like witnessing a sick game that was being played out by the warped and twisted mind of Insanity itself. Hundreds of thousands of men and women were standing in rows and columns of formations, blanketing the faces of the hills directly across from each other. With the echoing blow of an unseen battle horn filling the valley with its wailing, the multitude of formations descended upon the waves of their own battle cries, firing their weapons wildly, charging blindly to their deaths.

Sitting on the hood of their assigned transporter, John sat beside the Sergeant, looking through a pair of handheld binoculars. There was no order to the battle. Each soldier appeared to be emptying his or her rifle before using it as a club or an instrument for stabbing. The soldiers in the distal formations, still waiting their turns to descend into battle, were throwing explosive devices into the valley, sending body parts and whole corpses, as well as their own fellow mates, hurdling through the air. Piled up thick, and forming a coagulating pool of blood at the valley’s basin, floated millions of fallen soldiers, bloated and pale and torn to
pieces.

As the hours passed by with only large groups of deserters to call in, one of the squad members drew out his rifle in boredom and began firing into the carnage of the valley. They all knew very well that the distance was too far for him to make contact, but his actions were understandable under the monotonous circumstances, and the Sergeant refrained from keeping the Sweeper back from venting his frustration.

Attempting to track his squad mate’s bullets, John spied out a small group of soldiers commandeering a transporter and driving off into the blood red hills towards the rising of the Great
Star.

“I’ve just caught sight of three individuals making a run,” he said to the Sergeant.

Handing over the binoculars to his superior, John swung his rifle from off of his back, anticipating further orders. With their team leader scanning the area below, Goldman, anxious to get into the fight, said, “What do you see? Are we red light, Sarge?”

“I see ‘em,” the Sergeant mumbled. “It’s killing time.”

Howling and laughing as they hopped down from the roof of their off-road vehicle, Goldman and Roberts hustled to get into the hunt, throwing themselves through the doorways of the transporter. The Sergeant handed back the binoculars to John as the two of them slid off the hood. Taking their seats inside, they buckled in, preparing for the rough ride ahead.

As the engine kicked on, Roberts threw the transporter into gear, and began driving them down the steep, dirt road that descended the mountain. Guiding them towards the deserters’ last known position, John poked his head out of the window searching for the tire tracks that would lead them to the kill. As they appeared to be heading in the direction of the solar rise, the Sergeant commented that they were probably trying to make their way to the Old World ruins, but that the fuel cells of the war machines were never filled to capacity due to such a high potential for soldiers to attempt escape.