CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Alex vegetated on the twenty-six foot Dior couch in the middle of his library. Rebecca Trevino’s visage dominated the monitor. The Friday edition of Inside Today would start soon and the twelve foot by twelve foot screen allowed him over twenty thousand inches of viewing pleasure. He enjoyed the Friday episodes the most. They reviewed the previous week’s stories, and what could be forgotten in a matter of days never ceased to amaze.
Needing to relive every painful memory, he loaded up on enough snacks for the entire night: a roast beef sub, a pack of Double Stuff Oreos, E.L. Fudge cookies, chocolate in a jar, three bananas, and a two liter of Barq’s root beer.
The credits for Inside Today rolled. Pushing the detritus from last night’s snack session to the side, he assembled his new smorgasbord. Once organized, he leaned back and admired the ergonomical placement of each item.
A condition for him staying out of jail after Glen Daniel’s suicide: install triggers on the access room entrances. To avoid the temptation, or hours of staring at the door handle, Alex spent his time between the library, near the kitchen on the main floor, and one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor, which overlooked the front lawn (in case Rosa returned home early).
They’d talked on the phone and she’s sent him a lovely, six-page letter of condolence and affection which ended with her saying she loved him unconditionally and they’d be fine, she just needed some time. He never doubted their bond, but appreciated her detailing it nonetheless.
In the missive, Rosa mentioned staying away the entire weekend. That suited him fine. Her absence allowed him to wallow in self-pity—an underrated form of therapy.
Lights blinked around the screen showing the second intro commercial. Peter Mueller, his previously stoic, current sycophantic attorney’s name ran across the top like a ticker. Per Alex’s instructions, Victor blocked all calls, but the digital assistant displayed the caller him who called in case an urgent matter presented itself.
Most calls involved socialites he’d met throughout the years at the Los Angeles Atrium: actors, directors, writers, artists, professional athletes who, at one point, all wanted to have the private number of Alex Cutler. Being naïve, he had also longed for theirs. Their calls came under the guise of concern. In actuality, they desired a private interview; social currency of saying they spoke with the face of the Lobby. “Yes, he had slipped on a patch, but the Alex they knew would be fine.” Others simply wanted to gossip about Rosa. “How’s it going?”; “Good”; “I’m so sorry for your loss”; “Thank you”; “It’s so commendable that you’re comfortable with your wife planning fundraisers intent on closing the Lobby.”
Little digs meant to pry.
Liberal heart warmers made up the most hypocritical class in America. They helped the downtrodden to experience suffering through osmosis; to lick the psychic tears of a struggle well away from their palatial states. They preach acceptance by shouting intolerance. They discuss love by calling good people bigots. They ask for diversity, just not of thought.
Given a do-over, Legion would sit on property in flyover country.
Tearing open the Oreos, he considered the situation through Rosa’s eyes.
He believed she had the right to follow her heart. He only wished she wanted to talk to him about it, yet he understood why she hadn’t. Of all people, she knew how much he loved the Lobby. The funny thing, he would support her efforts. She might even lure him to her side. The current drama around the globe made him sick. Having spent days out of the Lobby, he’d recently wondered if the digital escape added any benefit to society.
Prior to the new discovery of death creating life, you couldn’t get him to bad-mouth the Lobby. Since then, he fantasized about supporting Rosa, strengthening their marriage. What a powerful combination they would make. The great, mystical Alex Cutler, the man many believed designed the Lobby by himself, joined side by side with his philanthropic wife in a mission to eradicate the very thing that brought them wealth.
Before he got too far into his daydream, Inside Today returned from commercial. Leaning forward to snatch a width of Oreos, he swigged from the opened root beer. By the time he leaned back, he abandoned all thoughts of an alternate reality where he’d support the destruction of the Lobby.
Another flash of light blinked around his screen, followed by Peter’s name, again. He swept crumbs off of himself, and let it go to voicemail. He wouldn’t say he had a belly, but enough of a bump existed to rest the tray of cookies upon.
The show started by recapping the previous Friday, when a custodian from London sneaked his entire family into an access room and then injected them with some lethal concoction of antifreeze and motor oil. Alex guessed that day’s events coincided with his first doubts about the Lobby’s value.
As soon as that spot ended, and he knew highlighting Glen’s death would follow, he lost heart and swapped to Discovery channel. By design, that station never looped Glen Daniel’s quote verbatim: “I know if you die while connected to the Lobby, you live forever. I know that’s what happened to Roy and it’s why Charles followed.”
Stuffing two cookies in his mouth, he chewed with slow, crunching bites.
The memory of Glen’s dying breath haunted him. Even now, thinking about it caused ghost fragrances to invade his olfactory. The viscous finality of death seemed to expel all of the long-preserved gasses and bacteria from the stomach, leaving a stench of corrupted iron, copper, blood.
Snatching the two liter and placing the opening under his nose, he squeezed the plastic sides and inhaled three quick intakes. He chased that with a drink, gradually warding off his unwanted memories.
After allowing an adequate amount of time to pass, he switched back to Inside Today at the exact moment it segued.
The previous Saturday, twelve people managed to connect to different access chairs around U. S. A., Europe, and Australia. They terminated their lives with hopes of finding immortality within a program.
Sunday: eight deaths, but only one splashed the screen. It surgically removed another piece of Alex’s heart. Sean Flaska, his long-time friend from Chicago, and head of the Madrid Atrium, had created a cyanide pill using fish-tank algae remover and apple seeds, becoming the Lobby’s twenty-seventh verified casualty.
The report claimed Sean left a suicide note. Alex considered asking Luke to track down a copy, but the notion never past the daydream phase. He lacked the motivation for action, somewhat appreciated his house arrest. He mainly wondered if he’d been mentioned in the note, if Sean hinted at a Noah’s Ark, or what cool T-shirt he selected for his last day among the living.
Monday brought twenty-two Lobby related deaths. Alex accepted this as compelling evidence the Lobby might not be safe, after all. That day also brought the sealing of Atriums. No more cleaning crews or visits by upper management. For the time being, their interiors would be multi-million dollar dust farms.
That evening, attorneys from the U.S. Justice Department filed injunctions to seize the servers, possibly to be destroyed. They were promised a swift hearing.
Tara’s litigation team numbered in the hundreds. Her face stayed on multiple channels. Recently they replayed her reading a statement vowing the Atriums’ would be reopened after the thirty day moratorium. No servers would be harmed.
As far as Alex could tell, she voiced a minority opinion.
Tuesday brought little change. Three deaths, none of which occurred on U.S. soil. Strangely enough, Alex believed that fact generated national pride.
The bombshell came on Humpday. Eight people: six in Europe, one in the U.S. and one Down Under. More importantly, the western world learned how the other half of the planet had been coping.
Rebecca ran a human interest story on Sung Yi, a Tao Buddhist amazing the world with his prescient teachings. He pleaded for people to align their karma, be good to nature, and at the optimal time, transport their lives to the “Seventh Plane of Existence, a paradise gifted to humanity by Gaea, the Mother of Creation. Wednesday also coined the term, “Death Trips.”
On that day, the world heard intimations of thousands of Death Trips having occurred in Japan and China alone. Their national spokesmen released statements denying any wrongdoing, labeling the accusations outlandish.
A few bloggers claimed the rumors of tens of thousands of Death Trips stood closer to six figures.
Hearing it anew caused Alex’s gut to drop and his heart to flutter. The thought appalled him. Labeling global death, “fake news” brought his best solace, but more and more outlets considered the boast plausible, and his claim, ridiculous.
He’d seen a Death Trip firsthand, from inside and out. Death acted as a gruesome chaperone and assaulted everyone left in its wake.
He gulped more root beer, then forced two Oreos into his mouth.
No one knew for certain, and no one in the West wanted to believe such things were possible, but the thought of thousands of orchestrated deaths carried volumes of implications.
Despite its modern day wanderings, and the mocking of pundits, America remained a nation devoted to the Bible, with Islam rising in every corner. The thought of countless people killing themselves draped despair over a God-fearing nation.
Two weeks ago, no one could have written a scenario plausible enough to evoke national outrage, pensive contemplation, and fierce emotional divide. People claimed our society was fragile—possibly the reason doomsday prepping piqued American interest—but who expected it to actually fracture?
Thursday, America once again abstained from Death Trips, along with Australia, but thirty-four deaths littered Europe. A bellowing for tighter security followed them from the Middle East and the West.
The biggest story came from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where an air strike leveled their Atrium, ending Lobby access for that part of the world.
Saudi officials claimed to have no evidence linking any nation to the attack. Yet, conveniently, all security personnel had been evacuated to a safe distance, leaving the one hundred and thirty-five thousand square foot complex free to be reduced to a pile of ash and debris.
U.S. officials have avoided commenting. With our media embracing speculation as a rule, the common thinking behind our government’s minimal clamoring: they supported the attack against a device many called unholy.
The internet burst with theories. The most credible that the Iranian military, with full approval from the Saudi Royal Family, committed the act. The most absurd that Alex Cutler, using a remote detonator from his home, caused the servers to self-destruct to avoid them being seized by Islamic nations.
Now, here it was, Friday. Protests warred outside every Atrium on the globe. The majority of the public still supported the Lobby, but the margin lessened by the day, by the hour, by the death.
Today, eleven Death Trips were reported. All located in the Paris Atrium, where scrutiny, finger-pointing, and investigations currently transpired.
Inside Today went to its third commercial near the same time he emptied the tray of Oreos. Alex flung the plastic divider on the table with enough force that it slid off the far side and onto the floor. He’d contact Rebecca Trevino. Before he could, however, he needed to chose a side and clarify his opinion.
He figured it best to call her and make the appointment, locking himself into action. Afterwards, he would call Rosa for her thoughts, contact Tara and get hers, and then come to his own conclusion.
He muted the television as it blinked again. A number ran across the top of the screen. The identifying text stated the call originated from “FBI Headquarters.”
Snide remarks from Agent Andrews were the last thing he needed on the cusp of an upswing.
Alex ignored the call. His new game plan consisted of taking his first shower in three days, going online to watch the Tao Buddhist video about the Seventh Plane of Existence for himself, and then contacting Rebecca.
Another flash crossed the monitor as he drank from the two liter, followed by a flowing text message, “Mr. Cutler, this is Special Agent Andrews, head of the Lobby Oversight Committee appointed to the Los Angeles branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It is imperative that you contact me. If you do not comply within the next twenty minutes, I will have the sheriffs bring you in.”
Alex might be on house arrest for a third time, suggesting he lacked the fundamental morality to strive in society; he still longed to avoid the experience of wearing manacles. The thought of steel clanked around flesh was archaic enough to make him shudder.
Another swig of root beer and then he asked Victor to place the call.
Before the first ring completed, Andrews answered, “Special Agent Andrews, F.B.I.”
He had the special right, Alex thought, “Hi, um, this is Alex Cutler, returning your call.”
“Good thing you called, Mr. Cutler. I couldn’t allow you to avoid me much longer.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “How can I help you.”
“We have a situation unfolding and would like your assistance.” He cleared his throat. “I may not hold the highest regard for the fast life you live, but I reserve hope that when your country calls in need of your expertise…” He paused as if that final word hurt him. After a beat, he continued, “That when your country calls, you’ll be willing to push aside your arrogance and come to its aid.”
Alex droned his reply. “I’ve been advised not to speak with any member of law enforcement without my attorney.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve contacted Mr. Meuller. With what he charges, you should have heard from him by now.”
“Maybe I should wait for his council.”
“Let me speak,” Andrews said. “If you could make the trip to the F.B.I. building tomorrow morning, regardless of whether you decide to assist or not, we will remove the GPS monitor from your ankle.”
Alex looked at the electronic manacle above his foot. Step one to seeing Rosa, Tara, or Rebecca Trevino outside of these walls involved its removal. “Sure,” he said. “When do you need me?”
“As I said, tomorrow. Seven a.m.. Try not to be late.” Another pause, and then, “We’ve had disturbing…progressions, that others feel you may be able to assist with.”
By the time he replied, “I’ll be there,” the line was dead.
With the phone in his hand, he considered tracking down Rebecca. Tossing it on the cushion, he decided to contact her at a more appropriate time.
Flopping against the back cushion, he tore open a package of E.L. Fudge. Recalling Andrews’ parting words, he tried to picture a progression more disturbing than the ones the world currently faced.