Outwhispered

A story based on underlying energies, spiritual technology, and unmasked human intentions.

1

“Where are you?” asked Gloria through the screen, her face exquisite even at this early hour.

“On the bus,” said Liam Fahey. He was sitting on 135 to Manchester, heading towards work, but still about fifteen minutes away.

“I don't understand why you don't just drive like a normal person,” she said, grinning. O'Brien was in the background of the image by the coffee machine murmuring into his phone.

“O'Brien is cracking up,” said Gloria, her smile disintegrating. “Another two were taken last night, both in Birmingham."

“F*****g s**t,” said Liam and a few of the passengers, golden-girl included, caught side-long glances. Gloria said, “I know how this is going to sound but you need to get here...now.”

Liam was speechless for a few seconds. Whispering in public, without the protection of a master-whisperer, was the quickest way to get caught by an organisation they had come to call The Speakers. But this wasn't the only reason he refused to whisper on any meaningful scale out in the open. The real motives for his abstinence were far darker.

2

Unacom's Manchester call-centre was ten miles outside the city and had a work-force of about fifty people, all unaware of the fantastic occurrences above them on the top floor. Mr O'Brien had started the company at eighteen years old and in the twenty-seven years since, annual profits had shot up drastically. He had never been to college though and had, even after all these years, only a basic business sense. But this didn't matter, because he could whisper with effortless ease, and had decided early on to use this gift to accumulate some serious wealth.

When Liam stepped out of the elevator and into the large modern office on the top floor, O'Brien met him with incredulity.

 

“Where the f**k have you been?”

 

 He was a small man, frosty-faced but with a fair amount of his own black still fuming at the fringe by his gnarled grey brows. Liam held his hand up as he took a seat on the huge leather couch. Early sunlight streamed in the broad bay windows overlooking the city skyline. Original paintings hung at intervals all around the hall-sized room. There were three big desks dotted eleven or so metres apart forming a rough triangle.

“Migorsky wants a break-down of the quarterlies, and there's a new revised list of clients in China. Also.....” He looked bleak. “A Speaker was spotted on Oxford Street.”

“What happened to the two in France.”

O'Brien paused, his beige frame uncertain. “They're gone….I’m following up on it, but right now I need you to secure Migorsky at least, we can't find if we don't have a pot to pi-”

“They're not going to stop until they find us,” said Liam

Gloria finally got off the phone and spoke up.

“We just have to act as normal as possible and hope the ID shift worked as well as it should have.”

Each of them knew the risk of their existence. And each had their multiple private motives for choosing to hide in plain sight.

“You said we needed more funds before we can make a difference,” said Liam, leaning forward on the couch, eyeing O'Brien. “There's only so much we can do as individuals…...you said a Commune was possible by April.”

“Yeah,” said O'Brien, sighing, “and the signal we gave off was so strong The Speakers had our location down to within 40 miles.”

“So what are we going to do?” said Gloria, annoyed, “Sit here for the rest of our lives making rich men richer, while the planet's eaten alive?”

“Of course not,” said O'Brien, “but we need more time. It's not just about the money; we need to expand our network. The way it is at the moment, we'd run ourselves ragged.”

“We should be making the world a better place,” said Gloria, and there was at least a minute of silence. O'Brien broke it by offering them both a raise.

That night, back in his twelve bedroom house, Liam was sitting on a Laz-e-Boy seat in the guest lounge, with a tall glass of mixed vodka perched awkwardly atop the arm of the chair beside an ashtray with two half-smoked joints. The enormous television screen was showing Invasion of The Body snatchers, but Liam was lost in fantasies of Gloria, mostly innocent, until an advertisement ruined everything.

The ad was gritty, realistic, and prolonged. Part of a drink-awareness campaign, it had liberties other organisations did not, and had chosen Liam's emotional Achilles as their theme.

The epic crash was from the point of view of an intoxicated truck-driver as he smashed side-on into a packed bus. Liam reached for the remote with such vigour the ashtray and the glass of vodka crashed to the carpet.

Before he could change the channel, he caught a glimpse of the impact sequence during which the gruesome, horrified expressions of the bus passengers could be seen right before adestruction.

Liam had not been affected by an ad in this way for a long time. It was as if the producers had managed to acquire the actual footage from that day and incorporate it into a narrative solely for the purpose of disturbing him. Out of all the incredible things he could do through the art of world-whispering, he could not whisper away the mortal tragedy he had requested by accident when his child-self had ordered the bus he sat on to be destroyed.

 

He never thought it would actually happen. And when the truck was upon him, hurtling savagely, he changed his mind. But only he was spared.

He got another drink, smoked the two joints in succession, and fell asleep on the expanisve curved couch, tilting toward sleep with blissful images and complex plots involving Gloria. He would never tell her how he felt; for that was something only brave or mad people did. He was just happy to admire her through the brittle net of friendship. For now.

He would regret this mindset, however, because the very next day, The Speakers came and the chaos began.

3

The raid was dramatic but not in the way that you'd think.

Two men in grey-black suits, with skinheads and neat beards, arrived in the door. There had been no call from the security guards, the care-taker, or the receptionist. When the door opened, O'Brien stood up with a look of utter panic neither Gloria nor Liam had ever seen.

“Who are you?” he called.

Ignoring the question, one of the men yelled, “Are you John O'Brien?”

They advanced toward the three at the heart of the room.

“Who are you?” O'Brien repeated, pressing the wireless emergency button on his desktop tablet.

“Good,” said the same man, smiling over at him.

The ominous duo reached the large space at the centre of the triangle and stood apart from each other. The same man asked, “Can you come with us please for a quick talk?”

There was silence for a second. When O'Brien spoke, the words shook.

“Why can't we talk here?”

“Because,” said the man, “this is a place of whispering.”

Immediately - a bit too soon - Gloria asked, “What's that?”

“We'll get to you in a minute Gloria,” said the man, without turning to her. Liam could only watch on, anxious but intrigued.

“I have nothing but respect for what you do Mr O'Brien,” said the man with astonishing warmth. “You'll be interested in what we have to say, but I'd prefer to just to show you.”

“You can explain it to us here,” said Gloria.

The man, who they would later come to know as Crownwell then stepped back to face her. His grey eyes seemed to dilate into grim pins as a layer of sunlight invaded his sight.

“Okay Gloria,” he said. “I'd hoped we wouldn't have to waste time with this.”

From inside the suit-jacket, he produced a slim tablet, dabbed down twice, nodded gravely, and held it up for all to see.

The screen showed a man in an alley with a knife in his hand. He seemed to be conferring with some invisible accomplice, muttering to himself.

“What the f**k is this?” said O'Brien, walking toward the screen. From her desk, in a low terrified voice, Gloria said, “It's my dad.”

“Yes,” said Crownwell. “And he's about to do a terrible thing.”

Tears formed in Gloria's eyes almost instantly. Neither Liam nor O'Brien had ever seen her cry.

“He wouldn't,” she said.

“No,” said Crownwell, “Probably not, but he's not your father anymore. He's under the control of a master-whisperer at the moment, so he's capable of doing pretty much anything.”

“But.....” said Gloria, staring at the screen. Her father suddenly jerked, as if arguing with the remote commander.

“Now,” said Crownwell. “This is simple: either all three of you come with me now, or Gloria's dad here will commit the first massacre in Manchester since Peterloo”

The three whisperers looked at each other. The tears in Gloria's eyes had turned to thick streaks of mascara. She looked so vulnerable it made Liam forget all about his vicious past; he began to whisper internally.

“There's no point Mr Fahey,” said Crownwell. “It won't work.”

The man on the screen then began to pace back and fourth with the knife at his side, peeking around the corner into the densely populated gardens of Piccadilly.

“What do you want us for?” said O'Brien in a hate-filled monotone.

Liam had that odd feeling again, an undercurrent of intention, like a hidden part of himself was whispering......but for what? It gave him a distinct feeling of control that was obscene in the context.

“For positive things,” said Crownwell, his beady eyes like two pale puddles. “And, if all goes well, world-changing things. For the better.”

“Like this?” said O'Brien.

Smirking, Crownwell said, “We're only showing you this to prove how easy it is for whispering to be used by the wrong people. We have no intention of turning Gloria's father into a murderer. We only use this to emphasize the point. Tens of thousands of people around the world are being used as unwitting pawns for agendas they're not even aware of. I need serious, competent whisperers to counter these agendas, but I knew you'd never come along without some proof.”

He raised his hand to the screen. “And here it is.”

“Stop it,” said Gloria, moving toward him. “Stop it right-f*****g-now.”

“I'm sorry,” said Crownwell, “but unless all three of you come with us right now, your father will begin killing strangers at random " and then himself.”

“Jesus,” sighed O'Brien in the distance. After a lengthy pause, he said, “It's up to you Gloria.”

Gloria barely registered the comment; her attention was set deep in the dilemma.

Liam was sickened.

“No,” he said, eyeing the screen at the clearly demented man, “It's not.”

A few minutes later they were exiting the premises through the CEO's private door at the back of the red-brick building and filing into a waiting limousine, its tinted windows beaming broad strokes of a sunny October morning.

4

Neither one of the whisperers spoke on the way to Manchester Airport, not even to ask where they were going; each were lost in their own grim positions. When they came upon a secluded staff entrance at the rear of the airport security gates they were waved straight through. Rolling slowly toward a small stationary plane Gloria asked, “How do I know my dad's okay?”

In the honeyed gloom of the limo's backseat, Crownwell's unlined face bore a crease of humour.

“You can call him as soon as we're on board,” he said. Liam was watching his face in the rearview mirror, and could not detect dishonesty. This apparent gentility was more unsettling than any outright lie, and a blazing silence clouded up the car like a fog of expectant misery.

The car stopped and the three whisperers exchanged weary glances, then crawled from the limo into the mild light of the day.

The 49 to Amsterdam was coming in for a landing half a kilometre to the west with a hoarse whistle. O'Brien lit a cigarette, his face moon-pale and pasty, before asking, “Where are we going?”

“I'd love to tell you,” said Crownwell. “But I can't.”

“We'll find out soon enough,” said Liam, hopefully.

“No,” said Crownwell, “you won't. Before take-off you're going to take a sedative and sleep until we get there.”

Losing patience, O'Brien said, “And how do we know we'll even wake up?”

“I don't mean to sound dramatic,” said Crownwell studying O'Brien's pessimistic inhalations, “but we could've killed you several times all ready. Your death doesn't benefit us; as I said, we need your help.”

“Yeah,” Gloria muttered, watching the airborne box of tourists and homecomers duck down toward the strip, “And now that you have us, what do you need my dad for?”

Crownwell didn't answer and, sensing the panic in the young woman's face and voice, he allowed himself a small sardonic smirk.

They boarded the plane a few minutes later, and shortly before take-off Gloria called her father.

He was okay, well... shook up having just emerged from the first non-alcohol related blackout in his life, with a butcher knife in his hand. But unhurt at least. Gloria managed to fend off her own fears and end the call without giving him any cause for concern.

After the phonecall, the three whisperers were assured that if they refused to co-operate in any way then Gloria's father would return to a state of murderous puppethood. So, helpless yet curious, they took the sedatives and were asleep within minutes. Soon, the plane was caroming above the clouds, heading further and further away from the relative normalcy of their lives.

5

Liam woke first and all he saw was black. The paint inside the cell was total darkness. He sat up in the bed, eyeing the tiny room. Lemon scents fumed from the cold concrete ground. He knew even before he checked the homely wooden door that it was locked. He stepped from the bed and put his hand to the door. It shimmered from the touch, morphed into many fabrics. There were no cameras visible in the room but Liam had no doubt he was being watched.

He tried with all his might to whisper the door open but nothing happened. Shivering from the frosty air, he returned to the bed and sat cross-legged with the blanket up to his stomach, his mind frantic with concern for the others. He wasn't surprised to find that he did not care about what might happen to himself; it was Gloria he thought of and, to a lesser extent, O'Brien.

Liam hopped from the bed and flew to the door and began hammering. Shortly, the door came aside. Crownwell entered, his bald head gleaming from a recent wash, a thick mug of rich-smelling coffee in his hand.

“Good Morning Mr Fahey,” he said offering the steaming cup, “how was your sleep?”

The tone was so casual, Liam actually answered, “Fine,” before erupting.

“Where am I? I want to speak to the others. What the f**k's going on? Are we prisoners?”

Crownwell sniggered. “Of course you are, what did you think was going to happen?”

He went on to explain the situation and after he left, Liam cried for the first time since the misty morning back in Ireland with the screaming tires, the scorching metal….all those innocent, screeching faces.

6

After hours of sleepless silence, Liam was led from his cell down a series of wide, windowless, tunnels. The testing lab was like something from Star Trek. A ring of panels lined with transparent graphene barriers encircled an inner chamber. A desk and some chairs were positioned at the centre, along with a wide monitor and some medical equipment including an EEG. Liam wondered what Gloria made of it and once again found himself enraged.

“What the f**k is this place anyway?” he said, walking behind Crownwell toward the desk. “What do you want us to do?”

Crownwell turned around and started walking backwards. “You'll be given directions in a few moments, the reason doesn't matter.”

“And when do we get to leave?”

“When it's done,” said Crownwell, taking a seat.

“When what's done?” asked Liam, hovering above the seat he was expected to occupy

He could feel the countless eyes beaming through unseen devices. The place was cool, painted black and yet somehow drowning in the fierce phosphorescent lights.

“One thing at a time, okay?” said Crownwell, taking a Mr Freeze from his pocket. Liam could only shake his head, arms folded tight. The frozen blue stick was placed on the smooth black surface of the table.

“First thing's first,” he said, “in case you haven't tried all ready,” he winked. “Me and my staff are protected round the clock by a team of master-whisperers, so don't waste the energy trying to make my head explode or whatever.”

His laugh was like a sneeze; it left him misty-eyed. His expression was merry, warm. It made no sense in the context and Liam hated how seemingly likeable the guy was.

“I want you to turn this into a drink,” said Crownwell, all humour vanishing in the space of a sentence; there was no smile on his face now.

“What's the point?” asked Liam.

Crownwell shook his head. “It's just a formality.....and I don't feel it necessary to threaten you again...I think that's pretty much implied by your captivity.”

Liam looked at the Mr. Freeze. The usual crystal shine to the ice was dulled from the dark desk beneath.

“And then I get to see my friends?” asked Liam. Crownwell burst out laughing.

“Not by a long shot,” he said when he'd finally calmed down.

7

After the innocuous fixing of the sweet, a series of equally pointless exercises followed, all object- related, until finally Crownwell told him he had earned himself a short visit.

Since total dominance over the facility’s newest members was established, Crownwell had merely given Liam the directions to a room not far from the testing lab, and then remained where he was.

Liam checked every door on the way down the painfully-bright hallway. All were locked but one.

Gloria was inside, pacing up and down the long, thin room. When she saw Liam enter she hurried over and hugged him. “Have you seen O'Brien?” she asked. Liam shook his head.

They walked the few steps to the tiny armchairs and sat down.

“There's something up with him,” she said.

It was clear she had been crying. “When I woke up I was in a bed, and a few minutes later that sinister, friendly f****r came in and told me if I didn't do what he wanted, he'd kill you and O'Brien.”

Gloria suddenly broke down. It was so fast and intense that Liam could only watch for a few seconds before he snapped out of it and took her in his arms. They stayed in that position for what seemed like hours. Finally, he leaned out from her.

“Gloria, look I don't know how long we have, and they're obviously listening....” he cast a depressed eye over the room, “...but we have to make a decision if it comes to that.”

Gloria quieted a bit, looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Liam, rising backwardly onto the chair.

“Whatever it is they want us to do, it's not going to be good....but if it's so bad that it...” He sighed.

.....we're only three Gloria, if it-”

The door opened slowly, with a tinny creek, and two bearded goons, tall and wide, arrived in.

“Mr Fahey you're needed in the lab.”

Liam looked over at Gloria. She was so dishevelled and afraid he was quickly immersed in fury.

“What if I just say no, f**k you.” He said in a low, unimportant voice.

One of the goons started pacing slowly toward him as if this meek protestation was something he had been looking forward to all day. Liam waited for the inevitable struggle but just as the man reached him he nudged him out of the way. The burly escort then punched Gloria once, hard, in the nose.

She sat there, shocked and still, as blood began to pour steadily from both nostrils. It then dawned on her what had just happened and she put both hands to her face, squeaking with belated pain.

Liam had never been in a fight before. He had been beaten up more times than he could count, but he had never hit back. This was because he knew there was a very serious possibility that he might never stop. He hit now, though, and the strike surprised everyone in the room, himself included.

He swung in a tight arc and planted his fist viciously on the jaw of the grizzly guard. The big man actually staggered back but he was only dazed. With the element of surprise gone, Liam knew the second wave had all ready won, so he turned to Gloria and said, “we're only three.”

After that there was the short, swift sound of the air being sliced by a fist out of sight, and then a long holiday in the black.

8

When he woke up back in his cell, Liam's head was pounding and his right eye ached, but he barely had time to assess the damage before a couple of different guards came. This time he followed them without further struggle down into the waiting laboratory.

O'Brien was in there, standing in a jumpsuit at the back-wall with thick ear-plugs twigging out the sides of his head. Several layers of blindfold restricted his vision.

“What the f**k is this?” croaked Liam making toward his sense-deprived friend. The largest guard he had seen so far materialized from one of the viewing perches on the perimeter and blocked the way.

“It may not be necessary for your boss to be impaired in this way,” called Crownwell from the other side of the room. “But just in case.”

“O'Brien!” Liam screamed. Nothing.

Crownwell beckoned for him to take a seat. Liam stood there for a second, glaring at his friend, weighing up non-existent options. Finally, he stepped helplessly over to the desk and sat down adjacent to Crownwell. They were both now facing the enormous screen.

“I'm going to tell you to do something now, and you can't ask why. You're just going to have to do it.”

He flipped the switch and real-time images of a man in his mid-forties came on the screen.

Liam sighed.

Crownwell pointed at the screen.

“I want you to give this man a brain aneurysm,” he said.

The smile Liam gave was not one of humour; it was of pure disbelief.

“You can't be serious.”

Crownwell, eyes closed, nodded.

“Why?” asked Liam, glancing back wearily over his shoulder to his mute, blind friend.

“It doesn't matter,” said Crownwell, “I told you no questions will be answered.”

A few moments of wretched unease followed as Liam studied the person on the screen: a chubby, clean-shaven man with frosty hair, a wry smile on his worn face, wearing an expensive suit. He was standing in a crowded city area - Liam couldn't say where - and a bald giant waited nearby, alongside an elaborate Austin Martin. The man of focus was chattering away on the phone, clearly ignorant of the remote and mortal situation encompassing him.

“No,” said Liam. That extra-ordinary tingling at the back of his head erupted once again, a soft whirring inside, like the intricate ghost of a complex intention. “It's not even possible....the law of attraction only works if it applies to me...I-”

“I understand,” said Crownwell, and stood up. He signalled with his finger to the nearest guard and the guard handed him an enormous gun. Crownwell then set off toward the deaf, blind O'Brien.

“Wait!” called Liam, but it was too late. Crownwell raised the gun and without any hesitation pulled the trigger.

Liam would never forget the sound beneath the sound. The first: a huge boom that shook the bones of everyone in the room, the second: a small slimy spudge as O'Brien's brains shot out the back of his head, splotched on the concrete surroundings.

Liam turned white from the scene, his lips trembling. Absolute shock was all that held back long, terrified tears. Crownwell turned back to face him.

“Now it applies to you,” he said. “I'll call for Gloria next, I take it you have no further reservations.”

He was right. Ten minutes later, the billionaire on the screen was lying on the side of the street, blood sloshing from his eyes and nose, twitching, as the clueless giant cooed and called for an ambulance. By the time they got there, the man on the ground was dead.

9

“The moon is grinning tonight, isn't she?” said Crownwell  slinking across the domed rooftop area.

“How much longer do I have to stay here?” said Gloria, feigning ease in his company. Crownwell reached the huge cornered couch and sat down adjacent.

With a calm, exterior gaze, he said, “Gloria, I promise you can leave on the 33^rd of next month.” He broke into a coarse giggle, raspy and quick. Gloria felt like swinging for him there and then, but knew she'd be outwhispered by the remote operatives.

“Why don't you just get your goons to do this s**t?”

“Because,” said Crownwell, smiling. “It's easier for some……the best energy can't be bought.”

Piercing the minute openings of the protective sphere above, a gust of wind curled across the roof top, whisping Gloria's fringe across her face. She left it like that, peering between the strands like an orphan in a comic book. And then a strange and disturbing feeling formed, a sensation: lust.

But it wasn't her own. The feeling, she knew, was being manufactured from afar. Her sexual impulses took a horrible leap and she found herself, against her will, moving toward him.

Crownwell's face took on a bland, distant expression, like he was trying to remember something important. Gloria's inhibitions had been hijacked, her body turned into a vehicle. Tears glinting in the moonlight on her eyes, she advanced. Crownwell snapped back to focus, slowly smiling as her head descended.

10

On the third day of 'testing,' i.e. demands, Liam was brought once again into the interview laboratory. This time it was Gloria who was ear-plugged and blindfolded. As a further precaution, a sound-proof window had been crudely constructed overnight. When Liam saw her, there was no instant fury or heroic dramatics; he felt helpless, degraded. He tried to roar in opposition, but only vague murmurs could be heard. The odd shadowy thought, the undefined motive broiling in some mystical gland in the brain, came on stronger than ever. Tense nerves became ticklish and absolute. Yet when he tried attract a violent scenario involving Crownwell and his menacing staff nothing happened. So what was it?

Crownwell looked like he'd had the best night's sleep of his life, and his face was even merrier than usual. Intuitively, Liam knew this wasn't a good sign. Crownwell smiled like a tall, harmless gnome.

“I'm not doing a single thing, you slimy b*****d,” huffed Liam, fierce eyes fixed on Crownwell. “Until I get to talk to her.”

“No,” said Crownwell flatly. “you have no authority to negotiate, and we don't have time for this.”

Liam was speechless. All he could do was glare at Gloria with misty resignation. Her lips were curled into a frown, her hands twitching anxiously in her lap.

When he turned around to argue further, the sight on the screen cut the legs off the sentence.

The ripples and creases of a dark blue ocean filled the screen. No boats or coastlines.

“What's this?” Liam stuttered. The vague feeling in the background that had been following him around for so long now took on a powerful position, like some Super-emotion. His whole body broke out in goosebumps and his stomach felt like there was a hundred angry hamsters fighting over a single spinning-wheel.

“This is the South Pacific Ocean,” said Crownwell, tapping an invitation on the seat beside his own. Liam continued to stammer his drivel as he shambled over, glancing back to Gloria before stropping down to the chair.

“Running beneath this is the … fault.....long story short,” he coughed, “it's set to go off any day now, and by go off I mean that minuscule grate that sets off the quakes and tides, thermo-something, anyway, give it a little nudge for me, will you?”

“W-”

“And don't tell me it doesn't apply to you, because you know what will happen if you don't, now do it,” he smiled victoriously, “...attract it for us.”

“Why do you want me to do it?” asked Liam, cringing from a cold pain in his head. Crownwell never took his eyes away from the mesmerising currents of the glistering waters.

“No,” was all he said. After a long pause, he sighed, fed up of the conversation all ready. He leaned back, startling Liam in the process, and gave a thumbs up to the b*****d who had knocked Liam out two days previously. Horrified, Liam spluttered, “No!”, but it was too late.

The guard stabbed her in the arm. The large butcher knife went in one side of her wrist and came out the other, then returned the way it had come. The divider was meant to be sound-proof, but Gloria's screech of pain was so extreme its diminished resonance could still be heard.

Liam shot up out of the chair and started toward her, but several guards broke away from their stations and blocked his way. Between their bodies, he could seen the bright-lit figure of Gloria, huddled on the ground, shaking and clutching her arm as wine-coloured liquid dripped thickly from her wrist. Liam whispered harder than he had ever whispered before but he was outwhispered once again, and he found himself relying more and more on that unnamed priority in the back of his mind. It was growing stronger and stronger with every second.

“We don't have time!” called Crownwell to the guards more than Liam. Two of them took Liam by the arm and dragged him the few metres back to the chairs where they slung him down facing the screen. Crownwell set his eyes on Liam, “I'm not asking you again.”

A lone gull glided in from the top right corner of the screen, pierced the dank waters and emerged already in flight, a violet fish in its cliff-white beak.

Liam focused on the currents, concentrating under duress, drawing nature toward his own purpose. But he couldn't do it; the perplexing conundrum of his whispering sub-conscious had exploded the second he had even considered the tsunamic intentions, and now thundered through his skull, ripping his senses from him, all at once.

“What the f**k?” said Crownwell, standing up. Liam was half off the seat, twitching, blood streaming from his ears. He landed on the ground just as the guard reached him, and was unconscious upon landing.

11

The intense painkillers only numbed the physical aspect of the trauma, so when Crownwell showed up just a few hours after the ordeal, Gloria was frail but enraged.

Soon after the door shut behind him, Crownwell got that pathetic, far away expression on his withered face and she expected the gruesome urge to arrive, but none did. Apprehensive of this security breakdown she tried a small whisper and the door behind Crownwell tilted open without sound. Gloria understood the significance of this immediately. So, without wasting any time, she went to work at once.

She stood up with a small smile and Crownwell felt the pain in the same instance. His hand went to his chest in stark agony. A horrible gnawing sound bubbled from his throat as the intense pain continued in and around his heart.

“You inhuman piece of s**t,” said Gloria, stepping further, her little smile now replaced by a fiery smirk of violence. “You took one of the most beautiful aspects of reality and tore it apart for......what? Money? Politics? Power? What's the point.

Crownwell's eyes were wide, filling with the bloodshot vines of the dying. He couldn't speak and even though he knew it was obsolete, he kept both hands clasped to his chest as if this mere physical touch would lull all anguish away.

“.......you force people to do vulgar, abhorrent things and if they don't then you hurt or kill the people they love.”

She was standing over him now, her tear-filled eyes beaming vengeance. She kept expecting the guards to burst through the door. “You're......”

She decided to save her energy for concentrating on the task of making him suffer as much as possible before his heart finally imploded.

12

Liam woke up feeling like he had slept for a century inside a glove. He'd had the best night's sleep for as long as he could remember, and he was distraught. Given the circumstance, the decent thing to do would have been to have a series of nightmares, each more hideous and realistic than the last. Then, the sounds.

Rushing noises, like raining feet they clicked and clacked beyond the door. Liam went and pressed his ear against the strange, changing material and was stunned when the cries of his captors became apparent.

Something was seriously horrifying them, something totally unforeseen. Liam didn't care what it was; he just wanted to know if Gloria was all right. The last image he had of her was a gaunt, wounded angel locked in a plastic box. He slammed on the door and it shivered its odd mist of images, now wood, now steel. More out of routine than anything, he whispered lightly for it to open.

The door creaked slowly aside and Liam stood there gaping at the available entrance. With conditioned caution, he stuck his head out.

The shadows of frantic operatives washed against the bending corridor. A frightened gasp ushered behind him and when he turned to see, the huge guard that had struck him previously was glaring at him, white as ripe cotton.

“Please,” he croaked through a dry throat. “Don't.....I'm sorry mate....I was only doing what I was told....”

Without exacting his influence, Liam knew his ability to whisper was no longer being impeded, and he considered taking revenge but the tormented expression on the ogre's face was satisfying enough for now. There'd be plenty of time for revenge later on.

“What's happening?” he asked.

The guard eyed him with both fear and suspicion. “You.......” he said, his eyes widening. He then abruptly turned around and scurried away from Liam. Once he was out of range, Liam's following frown gave up the chase, and he swivelled back around, unnerved.

With Gloria's frail state in his mind's eye, he picked up the pace and started the search.

After turning the second of three corners he was confronted with a troupe of guards who cowered when they saw him. “Where's Gloria!” he shouted at them.

One of them, a mature carrot-top with a hands-free cable dangling from his ear, said, “she was on her way to you when I saw her last, Mr. Fahey”

Ha! Mr Fahey.

“What the hell is wrong with you, any way?” Liam asked in a more contained tone.

The ginger guard's eyes became thick and dewy. “You.....don't know?” he said, amazed almost, trembling.

Liam shook his head. The guard stammered but before any coherent words could formed, a high, strong voice called his name from behind. He turned.

Gloria came sprinting down the corridor, looking so free and alive, it brought tears to Liam's eyes.

After they hugged, she asked, “How did you do this Liam...seriously?”

“Do what?” asked Liam. The tears had dried on Gloria's face and their silvery remnants gave her face a sweet shine. She tried to speak but only an excited chuckle came out. The row of startled guards had since dispersed.

“Nothing will ever be the same again,” she said, and burst into fresh tears.

“Come on,” she said, taking him by the hand. Soon they were both jogging through the corridors past shielding assailants and scared pseudo-authorities. Gloria kept glancing back with a big adventurous smile on her beautiful face. Liam could see the giddy joy emanating from her eyes. She was like a new person.

They reached the stairwell and two workers shot out of their way, muttering apologies, and vanished up the steps.

“All the injustices we wanted to fight,” she said, panting, “all the pain and suffering and hurt......” They reached the top of the stairwell. Gloria turned back. “I don't know how you did it, but I know it was you.......I felt it.....”

She pulled him closer until their faces were almost touching and kissed him on the lips, a playful act that promised many, many more like it. And then they opened the door together.

13

Wise and glimmering sunlight drowned their vision and for a few moments only the brilliance of the sun was visible, but then the intense glare faded and he could see the entirety of his life-long sub-conscious whispering.

Wonders floated high above the earth in all shapes and sizes. Noiseless, pristine answers to the call graced the air. Cars below halted, people sagged from windows, pointing. And all over the earth, a spiritual warmth not felt since before the last ice-age began to hug the planet. Gloria and Liam knew in their minds, in their bodies, and in the cool resonance ebbing throughout the ether, that a golden age now flew and flourished above them, restoring the natural bliss of living things.


END

Kealan Coady  june, 2015

Reviews

[kealan]

thanks roland, means a lot man...seriously.

[Roland Petrov]

The master at work again! Seriously, your stories deserve a wide audience, and one day you will be recognized as Ireland's master storyteller. If not, an injustice will have occurred.