Sanctuary

By Michael F. Mercurio

 

“Honey, can you let the dogs out please?”

Richard sighed as he got up from his computer at the behest of his wife calling from upstairs.

Mary and Richard Baxter had a bit of a menagerie in their home.  This was due in part because Mary had a tendency to take in every stray she came across.  Her husband didn’t mind though – even as he was pulled from his statistical analysis which he had been eagerly running for the last hour.  It was simply one of her many quirks which he’d grown to love.

This was a crucial moment, he thought to himself as he walked to the sliding glass door.  A German Shepard, a Chihuahua, a Pomeranian, and a fourth dog that was too heavily mixed to determine its dominant ancestry, all pawed excitedly at his legs – anxious to frolic outside.  Meanwhile, two cats looked up at him expectantly, waiting to be fed.  Their fur – one orange, and the other black - reminded him of the disturbing graphs and charts being displayed on his computer across the room.

“Okay guys,” he said to the dogs.  “Dad’s working right now, so if you’re going to go out, stay out, will you?  I don’t have time to keep jumping up and down,” he jokingly grumbled in a deep voice as he playfully ruffled their heads.  “And as for you,” he addressed the two cats, after the dogs bounded outside - immediately giving chase to the squirrels on the porch, “You guys…are useless.”  He rubbed each of their chins as he laid out their wet food.  Sighing again, he went back to his computer to continue his work.

Richard Baxter was part of a team of scientists contracted by the government, tasked with charting humanity’s present course in the global warming crisis.  The results showing on his screen at the moment were not good.  By his calculations – pooled with the data collected by the entire commission – there was approximately one year and seven months left before Earth passed the point of no return.  By then, if a comprehensive, world-wide solution was not found, nothing could be done to restore the stability of global weather patterns.  The next generation would then have to face an unavoidable ice age.  He was morbidly amused by this, thinking about how his own city ordinance handled a tiny bit of snowfall.  If things fell apart here with only a few inches of light powder, he could just imagine how they would handle it a hundred years from now.

His revelry was interrupted by a tapping sound on the glass door behind him.  The dogs apparently didn’t heed his request, and were clamoring to come back inside.  Richard sighed again.  “Really guys?”

Nevertheless, he begrudgingly got up to let them in.  Only five minutes had passed, but that was enough time for them to do…whatever it is that dogs do out there besides defecate and mark territory.  When he opened the glass door, all four of them remained where they were and looked up at him with an odd expression.

“Well?  You coming in or not?”

Instead, they cocked their heads to the side uniformly, and made a single whining sound.  Concerned, Richard bent down.

“What’s wrong, guys?  Huh?  What is it?”  He inquired this as he gently patted each of their heads.

That’s when the Pomeranian spoke to him.

Wait, what?

Yeah, that wasn’t right.  Richard’s mind played a trick on him.  He really needed to get away from the computer for awhile.

But then it repeated itself.  “I said, it’s time, Richard.”

The small dog looked at him directly in the eyes – his mouth moving perfectly in sync with his “voice.”

“Um…wow.  Okay.  I think it’s time for me to go lie down now,” Richard chuckled to himself nervously.  “Come on in.  Let’s go.  Dad needs to go take a nap.  Come on!  Inside!”

Then it was the German Shepard’s turn to speak.

“No, Richard.  Don’t be afraid.  You are not hallucinating.  We really are addressing you.”  The Shepard’s mouth, like the Pomeranian, opened and closed in the same manner, as if he were a perfectly conversing human – but…a dog.

“Hate to disappoint you guys, but dogs don’t have the vocal capacity to talk the way you all are.  And…um…huh.  I just answered you.  This is…problematic…”  Panic quickly began to rise within him as he called out to his wife upstairs – his voice cracking slightly.  “Um…Mary?!”

“Yeah hon?”

“The dogs…they’re um…  Actually, uh…can you come down here please?  I think I might need a doctor…!”

“What?  What’s wrong with the dogs?”

Concerned, Mary began heading downstairs.

“No Richard.”  This time it was the mutt that was speaking.  “There is nothing wrong with you.  Our vocal chords are not like that of humans - that is correct.  However, we have always possessed the capacity for communication with you.  This is achieved through a form of telepathy, combined with a contraction of our bronchial muscles.  This allows you to perceive our guttural tones as meaningful messages in whatever language you were brought up in."

“What’s going on, Richard?  What’s wrong,” Mary asked as she entered the living room.

“Mary,” Richard started – his voice quaking.  “What…what do you hear?”

“What do I hear?  I don’t know what you-“

“Hello Mary!”  The Chihuahua chittered at her excitedly.

“…R-Richard…?”  Mary looked at the small dog with debilitating panic crossing her face.

“You…you heard it too?”

“Please, if I can just get you both to calm down,” said the Shepard in a soothing “voice.”

“Oh my god, Richard!  What’s happening?!”

Richard thought for a moment, trying desperately to collect his thoughts.  If she could hear it too, then he wasn’t going insane.  That could only mean someone was playing a prank on them.  If so, however, he could not for the life of him figure out how it was being accomplished.

As if reading his thoughts, the mutt spoke up.  “Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, please calm yourselves.  I know this is a lot to take in, but do try to hear us out.  You’re not going crazy, and this isn’t a prank.  Similar events such as this are taking place all over the world right now, and it is vitally important that we get to the core of this exchange.  There isn’t much time left.”

As he said this, the Baxters suddenly heard their neighbors screaming from the next yard over.  Apparently, their son’s pet bunny was voicing something meaningful to them.

The orange cat on the desk looked up from her food dish and joined in the conversation.  “It’s true.  We have to start moving them to the next sanctuary as soon as possible.”  She then resumed her feast.  The dogs meanwhile, made their way into the living room, each taking a seat on the floor in front of the dumbfounded couple.  Richard, with shaking hands, closed the sliding glass door, and led Mary to the couch.  She held her head in her hands as he sat down next to her.

“Okay, so here’s the gist of it,” started the Pomeranian.  “You all are an endangered species.  Unlike most on the list, your problem isn’t environmental or had anything to do with poachers.”

The orange cat looked up to add, “You have this nasty tendency to wipe yourselves out.  This is the third sanctuary we’ve had to take you too.  We have a fourth one set up for you and ready to go, but that means your people are going to have to start all over again.”  She said this quietly as she cleaned herself from her light meal.

“We tried to subtly guide you this time around,” said the Shepard.  “Every species of animal you see here was placed to either watch over your race in some way, or provide you with nourishment.  If the dinosaurs had their way, they would have sooner seen you wipe yourselves out.  Fortunately, they do not hold a majority vote on the council.”

The black cat joined the company on the couch, jumping onto Mary’s lap and purred.  “We tried our best,” said the cat.  “But our methods were too subtle it seems.  It’s so very difficult balancing your freedom with your safety.”  Mary began to absentmindedly stroke his fur as he comforted her.

The mutt added, “The majority of you have genuinely tried your best.  You’ve even been kind to us, as we attempted to guide you away from war and pollution.  And that is why we’ve put up with you for so long – why we’re willing to continue putting up with you.  But this sanctuary has become too damaged.  Now we have to move you to yet another one.  And I fear, these will be trying times for you.  They always are.”

Richard and Mary Baxter looked at one another in disbelief.  Yet somehow, the message that their “pets” were relaying to them made perfect sense.  It was as if every question they once had as to the nature of human existence had been answered.  There were a lot more questions raised now, to be sure.  But one thing was certain:

Humanity had taken its role here for granted.


Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013

Paxgate

By Michael F. Mercurio


We met in secret.

Like-minded individuals infiltrating every aspect of the industry, we had finally attained a global dominance.  In the end, they had to go through us to purchase their vice.

It wasn’t easy.  The summit was held every month for fifty years, since the inception of Internet-based social networking.  Outlets such as Facebook and Twitter are what initially made it all possible.  Ultimately, we ended up creating our own social network:  Paxgate.

Paxgate was made available to the public, but only to an extent.  Its true aim was to seek out additional candidates into our world-wide organization.  As more influential figures were added to the fold, it became a simple matter to completely take over the business – no matter which company was producing the product.  A quiet restructuring here, a controversial downsizing there – this was all it took to gain a complete monopoly on the product.

These companies had only one element in common:  Weapons.

And in the end, we controlled them.

All weapons.

Everywhere.

When the final statistical reports came in, we of the Paxgate organization were overjoyed.  We quickly began mass producing our items on a grand scale, selling them to all sides, without exception.  It didn’t matter if they were third-world nations in the midst of a civil war, or a major power securing their border.  Saber rattling generated our bread and butter.  The greater the strife, the more profit we made, and the greater our influence became.  There were many casualties as a result of our double, triple, and quadruple dealings.  This was the price we all knowingly paid - and paid it gladly, as we felt the ends justified the means.  It was a bold venture, after all.

As the world slipped into chaos, the vote was taken, and the final objective was initiated.

Every weapon distributed by the various arms dealers around the world now contained one key feature – a feature that was exclusive to those produced from subtle transactions made through Paxgate.  It was a debilitating one.

Each instrument of death was designed specifically to fail upon firing, once a master switch in our base of operations was thrown.  In one fell swoop, every armament on the entire planet would be rendered utterly useless.  War would finally become obsolete.

On the day of the scheduled switch-off, a celebration commemorating the event was held.  Men and women worldwide who secretly worked for Paxgate threw parties and cooked feasts for their confused – but relatively happy – spouses.  Then, at the approach of midnight, they sat at their computers, counting down to when the switch would be thrown.

In ten seconds there would be everlasting peace.  Then nine, then eight, and so forth.  Enraptured co-conspirators held hands, eagerly watching the countdown.  Finally, at “one,” the master switch was pressed by the Paxgate founders – now rather old, and their arthritic hands shaking as much from age as from excitement.

And it worked.  Every weapon on the planet suddenly stopped functioning.  Guns ceased firing, and missiles launched as duds.  There was a global quiet for a time on all war fronts.  Soldiers looked at each other in bewilderment.

Finally, there was peace.  Everything was silent.

It lasted for approximately five minutes.  Then, combatants proceeded to spill each other’s brains using the butts of their rifles.

We never claimed we were very intelligent.

 

Michael F. Mercurio

Copyright 2013

Liberal Arts Daughter

By Michael F. Mercurio

 

She couldn’t stand the sight of her.

Cassey saw her mother every day, and it made her shudder each time.  Her grotesque figure made the girl scream inside.

She couldn’t help it.  She hated seeing her, and that made Cassey feel like a horrible person.  But to watch her lying in the hospital bed - withered, hairless, and hooked up to tubes like that – it was disturbingly surreal.

This was the same woman who carried her from birth – played with her with boundless energy, and was always so full of life.  The woman lying in front of her now bore little resemblance to the one she remembered only five short years ago.

The cancer had been exceedingly aggressive.  Had the doctors caught it in time, things very well could have turned out differently.  It had been decades, however, since Madelyn ever had a checkup or physical of any kind.  As a single mother, she simply never had the money for insurance.  It took fainting in the parking lot on that foreboding day to force her sixteen-year-old daughter to drive her to the emergency room.

“We’ll never be able to afford it,” she protested weakly as Cassey drove the ’98 station wagon at unsafe speeds.  She was right, of course.  The visit alone wouldn’t be paid off for years to come.  Then of course came the expensive tests – blood work, x-rays, CAT scans, and the like.

So instead, they found nothing.  After a short examination, they sent her home with a $500 fee, a recommendation for further tests which were not within her budget, and an otherwise clean bill of health.  Madelyn continued to have occasional fainting episodes for the next three years.

Finally, it happened on the job – her third one, in fact, after she finished up the first two.  Her manager took it upon himself to foot the payment for a complete medical workup.  It was a very generous act on his part, as it freed the company’s home office from any potential liability.  They would no doubt be required to reimburse him, anyway.

It was on this second trip to the emergency room that she was informed – alone – that she had liver cancer.  Cassey – now nineteen – was away at college, and had no way of knowing that her mother had just been told she only had two more years to live.  Fortunately, Cassey’s number was listed as an emergency contact.  Three days later, someone from HR “promptly” called her to tell her that her mother had been taken to the hospital.

Everything transitioned so quickly after that.  Cassey was forced to leave college to care for her mother at home.  She did this as best she could between her part time jobs.  They did receive some government assistance, which helped a little.  But nothing could prepare her for the changes she was forced to witness each day, as her mother slipped away little by little.

Now, once again standing by her bedside in the hospital on her final day, Cassey had completely forgotten that her own 21^st birthday was last week.  It had been a long time since any normalcy such as that had taken place between them.

Madelyn’s breathing was slow and irregular.  Eventually, it stopped.  The nurses came in, offered their condolences, and proceeded to unhook her.  It was routine, and felt oddly disconnected – nothing at all like how Cassey always imagined from television dramas.  The event passed as if it were something that happened every day.

In a way, she supposed it was.  People did die every day, after all.  But this should feel differently, shouldn’t it?  It was her own mother.  Was it normal to feel this numb?

A week passed when Cassey received a phone call from a lawyer.  Apparently, sometime after her first trip to the hospital, Madelyn had taken it upon herself to draw up a will.  Cassey met with the man who handed her an envelope, then gave her some privacy.  Her hands trembled as she read the letter addressed to her.


Cassandra dear,

                There are so many things I would like to do for you.  I love you with all my heart, and it hurts me so much that I can’t simply give you the moon.  You’re my daughter, and I always wanted to do right by you.  I couldn’t really do that before.  But now, if you’re reading this, it means I’ve gone away.  Now I can do more for you than I ever could before.  I’ve spoken with Mr. Heartman, the attorney who will be giving this letter to you.  He told me that once you’ve turned 21, the savings bond can be transferred to you if I should ever pass on.  I don’t know what the future will bring, but I want you to go to college, no matter what.

Please sweetie, don’t fall into the same trap I did.  I can’t do much, but I want to at least give you the chance I never had.

I love you always.  Happy Birthday, Cassey.

 

 

She read the letter back to herself twice over.  It was only after her third way through that she finally cried.  It came on without warning, and with a violence that caused her to hyperventilate.  In her mind, she could see her mother the way she once was, carrying Cassey in her arms again.

The Madelyn Whittman free clinic has been caring for the upper west side of greater Orlando for well over ten years now.

And to think, its founder – Doctor Cassandra Whittman – was once a Liberal Arts major.


Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013

The Last Song

By Michael F. Mercurio

 

When I was but a child, I experienced a dream that was so profoundly disturbing, that I clearly remember it as the first dream I ever had. It affected me so greatly, that I cried for days after waking from it.  I never realized however, how significant it all was until now.

In my dream, I was standing in the middle of a crowded, black city street.  It was night time, and people were huddled close together holding candles and flashlights.  Apparently, there was no power throughout the whole city.  Everyone here reminded me of the displaced individuals I frequently saw standing on corners or lying on public benches.  In this case however, it seemed to be the entire populous that was being forced to live in this manner.

I realized then - in the illogically disjointed way one can only come to such realizations in dreams – that this was the final day.  I didn’t understand the details, but somehow I just knew – this was the end for everyone.

I walked for a bit, stepping between the frightened masses, and noted a small, blond-haired boy of about ten years old.  He was lying on the ground, shivering and seemingly alone.  I wanted to help him in some way, but for some reason I lacked the ability to interact with anything around me - such is the way of some dreams.  Almost as if acting on my own intentions however, a disheveled older gentleman in his late forties suddenly appeared with a blanket in his hand, and wrapped the boy up in it, cradling him.

The man began to softly hum a hauntingly familiar tune to him, but gave it up part way through, quietly sobbing in despair.  It was then that I realized – once again in the way one only can in dreams – that the man was the boy’s adopted father.  The child had been deaf throughout his entire ten years of life, but the man hummed this tune to him every day that he had been with him, despite his affliction.  Knowing full well that his charge could never hear him speaking, he would nevertheless frequently tell him of how the song would keep the monsters away.

The song wouldn’t be enough this night, however.  And, finally admitting it to himself, the man simply broke down and began to cry.

A few moments later though, the boy stopped shivering.  Turning his head toward the starless sky, he closed his eyes and began to hum.

It was the very same tune his father always sang to his damaged ears.

Astonished, the man could do nothing but hold his son, and finally join him in humming the tune.

As the duo carried their melancholic harmony, others nearby holding candles looked at them.  None had heard this melody before, but nevertheless, the impoverished onlookers began to one-by-one add their voice to the pair.  I could only look on in awe as a crescendo of the forlorn symphony filled the air around me.  The entire city was now humming this enchantment.

As I was slowly waking, I began to float upward.  From my new vantage point, I was able to discern that the apparently viral song was being sung by the all-inclusive populous of the darkened world.  As everything finally went black, only the song remained.  And then, there was nothing.  And I awoke.

Many years have passed since I first beheld that dream.  And to this day, the vivid imagery of it all still haunts me.  My anxiety of it seems to rise with each day as I see the events of the world unfold around me.

Even more so, because now when I look at my reflection in the mirror, I see a striking resemblance to the man who vainly sang to his deaf son.


Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013