The Last Redoubt

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say, but as the mocha pattern of gas and stars swirled against the inky, icky dark above, you could hear them scream as my machete cut into necks. My arm was burdened from fatigue, and it took me two strikes to sever a head from the body. The backward swing caught and sprayed blood while the blunt thud splayed it down the front and back. The swinging and chopping had made a Rorschach pattern of blood and entrails against white robes and hoods. It was the only way and necessary. I had to go through them to get to Her, but I didn’t mind . . . not at all.

Fleeing and flopping bodies were everywhere. They could not see me which made it all the worst. Some even ran into and through the fire catching their robes aflame. In another light, mocking the small, petty slights of their hate and fear with blade and blood might have been enough, but it wasn’t. There was only sulking dejection because I knew why I had to be here, but they had little understanding. They sheltered what had blasted through the vacuum, the mocha swirl, and the inky, icky black. But to understand, it is best that I begin from the beginning.

It was 1957 and I was a janitor at Tonopah. It was a good job. No one bothered me. I did my job, asked no questions, and went home to my family.

It was late at night, and I was cleaning the offices, dumping the trash. Everyone was gone and the quiet, this late, did not bother me, but the voices did. They came from the corner office farther down the hall. Two men.

“I don’t know why.

“He’s barely above retarded. That’s why he was chosen for the job. But I have another use for him.

I rattled the garbage can to let them know I was there. The voices stilled and a head poked from the door.

“Oh, hello, Johnson. Didn’t know you had gotten this far.”

“Just finishing up, sir.”

“Ok. Go ahead.”

The head disappeared and the door closed, and I could hear only muffled sounds. I finished up the rest of my tasks and left, but the two men were still there.

Once a week the Room needed to be cleaned: starting with the control room, dusting the panel with its dials, switches and the lights which never dimmed, changing the air filters, dumping the garbage from bins that had, maybe, a broken pencil or crumpled piece of paper in them; from there down the stairs to the closet to get cart and fill bucket with hot, sanitary water just as shown to do. Never deviate, follow procedure and there could be no mistakes nor carelessness to be blamed for.

Mop and bucket were for the room with the huge, round, vaulted door extending from floor to ceiling. So big that it had its own stairs that led to the cylinder that opened it. Switching on the light, I rolled the cart and bucket to the right corner wall away from the vault. It would take eight passes up then down and the final one back to the door. It usually took an hour.

Passing through the door, a headache would be the result every time. No mention was ever made of this. More important was the job, not the ailment.

Then, later, when I got home and slept, would come the dream. Always the same. The woman. She floated in a water, golden hair swirling and twisting about her, though there was no current, shackles with long, heavy chains at her wrists and ankles: those at wrists used to pull her arms wide; those at her ankles used to draw her legs closed; like Christ upon the cross. What could be seen, determined, of her face showed her mouth to muffled with small bubbles of air rising from the rim beneath her nose. She was unable to struggle because the restraints held her tight. But what was most disturbing of all was her nakedness the very sight of which would be a death warrant if discovered. Round hips, large breasts, and taught nipples from which flowed not milk but blood which flowed from her like ink to cloud the water. Rising with the bubbles so as not to be covered in inky darkness, my head would break the surface along, and as the bubbles burst, I would hear, “Help! Me!”