John found himself in an alley behind the Word of God Commune in the industrial district of Philadelphia. A high chain-linked fence topped with barbed wire stood between him and the adjacent commune. Several rotating spotlights illuminated the area in a sketchy manner. The air reeked of sweat and sulfur.
John deposited his communal worker’s clothes in a dumpster and left the alley. He was glad of the uniform on his back because it allowed him to travel in the open. As he passed other soldiers on the streets, he gave them the customary C.P. greeting: the sign of the cross followed by a swift salute from chest level.
He ambled down the dark streets of Philadelphia, disgusted by the brotherly love surrounding him. As the wind picked up, scraps of litter cavorted on the sidewalks, and vermin scurried about in the gutters. John glanced at the sky, hoping to recognize a familiar constellation. Instead, he saw the ruins of what had once been a magnificent skyscraper, flanked by a cloud of smog that concealed all stars. President Baker had ordered the demolition of the skyscraper.
"As God’s children on earth," he said, "we should not aspire to reach Heaven prematurely. Our creations must remain humble."
As he marched on, John forced himself to forget such travesties by conjuring up an image of Daisy Sapphire. In his mind, he saw her luminous eyes, heard her melodious laughter, smelled her luscious hair, felt her silky skin, and tasted her sweet lips.
I will soon be rapt in your soul, he thought. So soon—after so long.
A shrill scream interrupted his phantasy. His eyes bolted open and searched for the source of distress. He spotted distorted shadows dancing in a nearby alley and jogged toward them, feeling like the protagonist in a 1940s film noir.
The shadows led to a pair of C.P.s taking turns on a prepubescent girl.
Horrified and appalled, John whispered, "What…what…why?"
The C.P.s swiftly pulled up their pants and impulsively saluted. The girl collapsed on the ground, bruised, bleeding, and crying. One of the C.P.s appeared to be in his mid-twenties—about the same age as John. The other one, an older, taller character with one droopy eye, noticed that John’s uniform identified him as a lowly guard. The veteran C.P. confidently spoke.
"This is official business, soldier—our official business. So if you…"
Before the C.P. could finish his sentence, John threw a mighty punch into his droopy eye, sending him to the ground. John and the young C.P. stared at each other, equally shocked.
As the young C.P. raised his weapon, John bashed the soldier on the head with his rifle stock, using a mammoth swing comparable to that of the late slugger Mark McGwire. John turned to help the injured girl, but she was gone. He ran, leaving both C.P.s behind.
John ducked into another alley to catch his breath. A copy of Christianity Today lay on the ground, soaked with some unidentifiable urban slime. President Baker’s smile graced the front page under the headline BAKER PREPARES FOR WAR AGAINST PORTUGAL. The wet ink had smeared, giving Baker’s face the warped, melting look of a Salvador Dali watch.
After recuperating from his sprint, John realized that he was near Baker Memorial Hospital, workplace and home of Daisy Sapphire. She worked as a surgical technician and slept in the basement with the other employees.
Daisy had always wanted to practice medicine. But the Federal Education Assignment Board had determined that she lacked the necessary aptitude to attend medical school—even though every hospital employee, including the doctors, now turned to her for help.
John increased his pace as the hospital came into view. For years he had seen Daisy only in his dreams. He felt like running to the hospital, laughing and crying all the way, but he continued to walk slowly and superciliously, as any well-trained C.P. would.
As he neared the front entrance of the hospital, he saw a crowd gathered around a C.P. patrol car. A few gunshots rang out, the crowd parted, and the car drove off with its lights flashing and siren wailing. John was glad of the disturbance, as it created an opportunity for him to search for Daisy in relative obscurity.
He approached a middle-aged nurse on the outskirts of the dissipating crowd and said, "Excuse me, I’m looking for Daisy Sapphire."
"What a surprise," said the nurse, with scorn shining through the surface of her knowing eyes.
"She seems to be quite popular with you fellas tonight. But, sorry, you just missed her," continued the nurse as she pointed toward the departing C.P. vehicle.
"What do you mean? What happened?" asked John as the C.P. car disappeared around a corner.
"You mean you don’t know?"
John shook his head, bewildered.
"Well," explained the nurse, "you saw all the people in the crowd, right?"
John nodded, and he noticed that the only person still around was an old man sitting on the sidewalk, shivering. The man’s eyes appeared dark and hollow. Blood slowly oozed from exposed sores on his neck and face. The old man stood, looked up at the dark, smoggy sky, lifted a disdainful middle finger, and stumbled off into an alley.
In the meantime, the nurse continued, "Those people in the crowd, they were Daisy’s patients—her real patients. You see, we’re only supposed to treat government employees. Drudges from the communes aren’t allowed in the hospital; they’re supposed to go to their own infirmaries.
"But Daisy has never followed the rules. The only reason they kept her around so long is because the doctors needed her. Everybody knows that she’s the real Head Surgeon of the hospital."
The nurse chuckled. "Yep, she’s the only self-educated surgeon I know, but she’s also the best there is.
"Anyway, she started secretly treating drudges at night after she learned that most infirmaries consist of a first-aid kit and a supply of heavy sedatives. She set up the only place in the city where drudges could get the AIDS vaccine, cancer treatment, or any kind of real medicine. She stayed up all night sometimes.
"She even removed a brain tumor once—in less than three hours. I was there.
"Word about Daisy spread as quick as the HIV virus, and more drudges began to appear every night. We all knew it was only a matter of time before you creeps decided to bust her.
"And it happened tonight. Funny thing is, the patients didn’t arrive until after the C.P.s, so Daisy wasn’t arrested for illegal treatment, but for the possession of subversive literature—The Collected Poetry of Cassie Boggs."
"No," said John softly. The nurse noticed tears forming in his eyes.
"It’s okay," she said, suddenly confused. "They’re not gonna kill her or anything. Baker knew about her night clinic. He’s been watching her for a while, and I heard he wants to have her at the White House—as an assistant or something."
"No!" yelled John.
John knew that assistants—all of them females ranging from age 15 to 25—served as Presidential Prostitutes. Many girls dreamed of becoming an assistant in the White House. Assistants lived in lush comfort, and because there were so many of them, they had to work only a few nights a week. A handful of top government officials and foreign ambassadors enjoyed smacking them around simply because they could, but the bruises lasted only a few days.
Fury seized John when he learned of Daisy’s destination. He rushed after the long-departed C.P. car—only to be stopped by a man who emerged from the shadows to block his path.
"Let her go," said the man.
John said nothing as he stood in the street, scared and confused, with tears of rage streaming down his face.
The stranger stepped forward. He appeared to be in excellent health despite his old age. His long, white hair glowed with vitality underneath a psychedelic bandana. And though his calm, cheerful face seemed out of place in such a morbid environment, it provided John with a much-needed sense of hope.
"Who are you?" asked John.
"Just call me Tim. We’ve been expecting you for some time now, you know."
"Who is ‘we’?"
"The Underground. You do have the password, right?"
"Prometheus," said John confidently.
"He’s rising," said Tim to complete the secret phrase. "Now follow me, and don’t worry about Daisy."
*****
"What is this place?" asked John, his legs aching from the long walk.
"They say a German doctor built it in the 1950s. Baker’s boys started to tear it down a few years ago, but I guess they forgot to finish the job. Lucky for us. Whoever built this place designed it with a nuclear fallout shelter as big as the house itself."
It was 3:00 a.m. They stood outside a crumbling neo-Gothic mansion in an abandoned residential neighborhood. A dim streetlight illuminated a tower that stood half-demolished on the left side of the mansion, as if a giant woodpecker had searched for food there and flown away unsatisfied.
As he told John about the mansion, Tim produced a thin marijuana cigarette from the pocket of his blue jeans and lit it with a match. After he exhaled, Tim offered the joint to John.
"No thanks," said John. "Those things’ll kill ya."
Tim grinned. "Yeah, I know," he said.
They walked through the unlocked front door into a vast, empty foyer. A lavish staircase spiraled upward to unseen floors. Tim passed the staircase and entered a dark library full of dusty books. A long table occupied the center of the room, and a marble sculpture of Atlas shouldering the Earth sat atop a short ionic column in the corner. Tim tilted the sculpture and pressed a button underneath. As a bookcase revolved to reveal a passageway, Tim said, "Welcome to the Bat Cave."
The corridor behind the bookcase led to what appeared to be a dead-end stone wall…until Tim withdrew a remote control from the pocket of his denim jacket and zapped the wall, which then slid away to reveal an elevator. They got on, and Tim pressed a button labeled "B."
The elevator descended rapidly, but it still took a while to reach its destination. It finally opened to a bright, narrow hallway with one door on the left and another at the end of the hall. Tim used the remote control to open the door on the left and reveal another door a few feet behind it.
"You’ll have to leave the rifle here in the safety room," he said. "No weapons allowed inside."
John handed over the rifle. Tim typed a code into an electronic keypad to open the second door. Though John caught only a glimpse of the space behind the door, he saw many more weapons inside the safety room.
After resealing both doors, Tim led John to the end of the hall. Tim stood before the thick, metallic door and said, "Open please." Each half of the door disappeared into the wall. Tim and John entered a vast room about the size of a football field. It was dark except for a blue glow emanating from the far corner. John recognized the forms of many tents, cots, and sleeping bags—and heard accompanying snores.
Tim handed a pillow and blanket to John and said, "Get some sleep. I’ll explain everything tomorrow." He pointed to an empty cot. "You can crash over there."
As John fell asleep in the subterranean wonderland, he shed tears for Daisy, but he also felt the vague twinge of an emotion he had all but forgotten: security.
*****
"Wake up, man!"
John opened his eyes. The face above him slowly came into focus. He saw a Shirley Temple smile next to a nasty bruise. Then he recognized the big blue eyes, short blond hair, and doll-like face; it was the girl from the alley.
"Wake up!" she yelled again.
"You," said John. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I’m fine. But you gotta get up! You’ll miss the meeting!"
John looked around. Now that the lights were on, he saw that he was surrounded by a work of art—the most ornate mural he had ever seen. Paintings and poetry—beautiful graffiti—covered every inch of every wall. Even the ceiling boasted artwork.
He also noticed that all the tents, cots, and sleeping bags had disappeared. The people had disappeared, too, except for a few who buzzed around like bees gathering pollen.
"Where’d everybody go?" he asked.
"They’re out spreading the word," said the girl. "Today’s a big day. Come on now! Get up!"
The girl tugged on John’s arm until he got out of bed. He put on his boots and followed the girl, who was still saying, "Come on, man. You’ll miss the meeting!"
She led him to the far corner of the room. As they got closer, he saw a hallway and heard murmuring voices. The girl pointed toward the curved corridor. "The meeting’s in there. But before you go, I…I just wanna say thanks for helping me yesterday. And I want you to have this."
The girl handed John a daisy and hurried away.
"Thank you," called John, touched and amused by the gift. He put the flower in his pocket and walked down the hall. It led to a smaller room, where several people sat at computers, typing adamantly. Televisions lined the walls, each of them showing a different scene. The largest screen, however, presented only darkness.
Several men and women sat around a table in the center of the room. A tall, bearded, black man rose when he spotted John and said, "We’ve been waiting for you. Have a seat."
"Douglas Gordon?" asked John.
"That’s right," said Douglas.
"Your nephew Marcus wants me to tell you he’s all right."
"I know he’s all right," said Douglas. "We’ve been keeping an eye on him."
John sat down. He recognized many other faces at the table; he had seen them in Christianity Today. They were all outlaws: scientists, teachers, philosophers, writers, artists, poets, non-Christians, homosexuals, laissez faire capitalists, and other persecuted minorities who had evaded the Christian Police Force.
"I’m sure you know we’ve been planning a revolution," said Douglas. "We’ve been gradually spreading the word and gaining more support for years now. We had planned to force Baker into another election by setting up an industrial strike—but now it’s too late for that. He wants to bomb the United States."
"What?" asked John. "Why would he do that?"
A few people chuckled at John’s naivete. A Latino woman with glasses and curly hair, who John recognized as the former attorney general, spoke up: "Because he wants power, and he hates liberal thinking. He has the odd notion that liberal thought stems from the Disney corporation. Disney World was indeed one of the last industries to relinquish its business. And, well, you know what happened to Disney World."
"Yeah…but that was a natural disaster," said John.
"Not so!" said Albert Brown, physicist extraordinaire. "It was a synthetic disaster. I…I am ashamed to say that I helped design the detonation system, but I had no idea…I was just doing my job…"
"Detonation system?" said John. "I don’t understand."
Albert continued, "The tsunamis of ’58 weren’t ordered by God. They were ordered by President Baker. I worked for the Military Research Agency at the time. I didn’t have anywhere else to go…I didn’t know about the Underground.
"The tsunamis—they were created by a special underwater detonation system. They were controlled—generated by strategically placed atomic bombs, detonated at specific times.
"The impact centered on Disney World, of course, but most of the East Coast was damaged. In this way, Baker sent out a strong message about sin and established his direct line of communication with God."
John shook his head. It was all beginning to make sense now.
"It’s true," said another man. "I worked for the Agency, too—before I learned about the Underground. I worked in the space program. Baker has spent billions on military satellites and rocketry, but he wouldn’t let us send any supplies to the colonists on Mars. They went up to Mars in 2055, during the Dallas term. But when Baker took over, he cut off all communication with them. We never heard from the colonists again. He just left ‘em there to die."
John noticed faint music: "Revolution" by the Beatles. In the next few minutes, he would also hear "The Ballad of John and Yoko," "Imagine," and "God."
John also noticed the food on the table and realized his immense hunger. He reached for the first of many bagels, all of which he would wash down with orange juice.
Douglas spoke again, "Baker not only stranded Americans on Mars, but he stranded them in America as well. I don’t have to tell you about the deplorable living conditions. You’ve been there.
"The term ‘civil liberties’ no longer carries meaning. Our children are taught only to conform. People are dying from curable diseases. And now the bastard’s gonna bomb his own citizens.
"Why? Because he thinks he can. He wants to finish off the ‘Evil Empire of Mickey Mouse.’ He believes Disney Land is still a center of sin, even though it’s been shut down for nine years.
"He thinks he can waste expendable U.S. lives in California, blame the attack on Japan, and then counter-attack. I don’t know if it’s because of his military industry or his personal psychosis—or both—but this man wants to start a nuclear war. He said he wants to ‘finish off that island of slant-eyed heathens like they shoulda done last century.’
"He knows the only way he can stay in power is to keep people’s self-esteem low and line up war after war, disaster after disaster—to keep them scared. And he’s using the concept of God to reinforce their fear.
"But he doesn’t realize how many foreign leaders are itching to take a shot at him. If Baker attacks Japan, the United States will turn into a full-time war zone. I think that’s what Baker ultimately wants—to witness drama of domestic self-destruction—and that’s what really scares me. Baker and his Bible both depend on the same thing: Death. He may not realize it, but this man’s spiraling toward his own Doomsday. And we have to get him out of office—or he’ll take us down with him."
Douglas stopped talking. John sat in silent contemplation until he suddenly remembered…
"Daisy!" said John. "What happened to her? Tim said…Where’s Tim?"
"Tim’s out spreading the word," said Douglas. "He’s one of our best revolutionaries. And don’t you worry about Daisy. She knows what she’s doing, and the plan is well thought-out."
"You mean, she got arrested on purpose?" asked John.
Douglas smiled. "I don’t think the C.P.s could’ve gotten her any other way."
"But why?" asked John.
"Well, let’s just say that Baker has a little crush on her. He’s been to visit her at the hospital a few times, and we think he may talk to her. This is our first attempt to capture his lies on video."
Douglas pointed toward the large, central video screen, then continued: "That’s the view from Daisy’s camera. The camera is hidden within her necklace charm. Its diameter is about a fourth of a millimeter. You can’t see anything right now because she’s still asleep."
"Where?" asked John.
"The White House," answered Douglas. "But enough about Daisy. She’ll be fine. Let’s talk about you, John Warner. We heard from Marcus that you might be joining us, but we didn’t expect you so soon. And besides what we’ve heard from Marcus and Daisy, we know nothing about you."
"There’s not much to tell," said John. He paused to absorb the melody of the Beatles. "Those songs remind me of my childhood. My dad loved the Beatles. We used to listen to them all the time. The Beatles, Beethoven, Marilyn Manson—all the great classics—every Saturday morning.
"That’s really the only time I saw my dad—on the weekends. He worked as a genetic designer—always busy inventing some new gene. My mom taught literature. She was around the house more often, but I never got to know either of my parents very well. And I still regret it.
"The Dallas term was great for us. My dad won the monthly National Science Prize when he designed a better cure for sickle-cell anemia. He went on to discover cures for other genetic diseases. My mom published a critical guide to James Joyce from a Transhumanistic perspective. And I was beginning to discover myself—through film and literature, but mainly through my own writing.
"I dreamed of writing novels, making movies—creating art that really said something—art with its own meaning and purpose. Just when I figured out what I wanted to do with my life, Baker’s religious politics took that option away from me. A new Legion of Decency invaded Hollywood. They specified exactly what was appropriate for the screen, and the Christian Policemen enforced the censorship. Now American film is dead. All that’s left is a nauseating tribute to the Big White Man upstairs.
"Baker began to implement his educational system during my sophomore year of high school. I quit school after a C.P. beat me for refusing to kneel during the morning prayer. There was no point in seeking an education within a system of ignorance. So I found my own teachers in books outside school.
"My mom lost her job, and my dad refused to work for the new government, so we started an underground library, moving from apartment to apartment and storing most of the books in abandoned houses. We collected and rented all the illegal books we could get our hands on. I’m sure some of you remember the library."
A few people around the table nodded their heads in fond remembrance. Albert Brown said, "I think your library had the only copy of Origin of the Species remaining in the city."
"And Atlas Shrugged!" shouted another man wearing a navy blue suit. "I rented that book from your library five times one year."
John nearly spilled his orange juice when he saw the face of the speaker. "You," he said. "You’re one of them! I’ve seen your picture in the newspaper."
"This is Mr. Henry Fox," said Douglas. "Henry is the C.E.O. of Jehovah’s Almighty Plastics, one of the largest exporters in the United States. And he is one of us. He’s one of our highest-ranking inside agents. You’d be surprised how many supporters we have—and not just in Philadelphia, but all over the world."
"I don’t understand," said John, still looking at Henry.
"I’m a businessman," explained Henry, "and Baker knows I’m one of the best. I’m his key player in the international market. He can’t afford to lose me.
"At the same time, I comply with most of his silly regulations—like the name of the company—because I have to if I want to keep my business. I despise owning a company controlled by the government, but it’s all I have to work with right now. I’ve been searching for Galt’s Gulch, but until I find it, I have to stick with my company no matter what.
"I’ve always treated my workers fairly and refused to give them mind control pills. When Baker’s boys came around with the red crosses, I told them that my employees work more efficiently when they’re not zombies. My workers are all good people, specially selected for their skill, intelligence, and attitude, and you may consider them all part of the Underground as well. We’re all waiting for Baker’s rule to end."
John nodded his head. "I see," he said.
Then he continued his tale: "Well, as many of you know, our underground library did pretty well in that first year. We made enough money to get by, and Baker’s boys never found us in all the confusion and chaos, although they came close a few times. But then…my parents just went too far when they heard about Baker’s ‘Burn Away the Sin’ stunt at the unveiling of the new White House here in Philadelphia.
"I knew my parents were planning something dangerous because they sent me to stay with my aunt. Of course I ran away and headed to Baker’s spectacle. He spoke for a dreadfully long time, quoting the Bible and ejaculating hallelujahs hither and thither. Finally he announced, ‘It’s time for what you’ve all been waiting for—time to Burn Away the Sin!’
"I couldn’t believe it when the crowd cheered. An army of C.P.s delivered millions of banned books to the front lawn. Truckloads of classic novels and modern textbooks…It was definitely a sad moment, but I was more concerned about my parents than Baker’s circus act. I knew they were there, but I couldn’t find them.
"As Baker lit the mountain of literature with a candle from his altar, I walked around the crowd looking for my parents and trying to ignore the flames. But one flame caught my attention—one solitary flame apart from the engulfing conflagration. A hush fell over the crowd as everyone watched two dark figures emerge from the shrubbery and stick a torch to their New American flag.
"All eyes witnessed a distant flame devour the crucifix of 54 white stars. Baker forgot about his mic and whispered, ‘What the hell izzat?’ I broke through the crowd and ran toward the burning flag. Darkness concealed the faces of the two protestors, but I knew who they were.
"Before I could reach my parents, they had been pelted with sticks, stones, books, bottles, and bullets from C.P.s and civilians alike. I don’t remember much after that—just the C.P.s who dragged me away kicking, screaming, and crying. I thought they were going to kill me.
"But they didn’t. I woke up, bruised and beaten, inside St. Edward’s Home for the Unwell—a prison for social undesirables. Most of the inmates were indeed very sick or very crazy, but many, like me, were stuck there because they didn’t fit anywhere else.
"That’s where I met Daisy Sapphire. She was the first person I saw upon my awakening—standing over me like an angel with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She was dressed in soiled scrubs, but they couldn’t hide her long, beautiful hair and warm, caring eyes. I’ll never forget that image. I thought I was dreaming…Then she stuck an alcohol pad to the cut on my face."
John laughed, blinking back tears before he went on: "I don’t think she’ll ever forget that moment either—because I screamed and slapped the gauze out of her hand with the ferocity of a true raging lunatic. From then on we met whenever we could, which was pretty often since she lived in St. Eddie’s, too.
"But we had to keep our relationship secret because she wasn’t allowed to emotionally interact with her patients. Sometimes we would hide in the janitor’s closet and talk all night. She told me about her separation from her family and her dream of becoming a doctor. I told her about my parents’ deaths and my dream of becoming a writer. We talked about everything from childhood memories to transcendentalism and quantum physics. I had never felt so spiritually connected to another person.
"Other times we would just sit there holding each other and not say a word. I think we gave each other a sense of hope at a time when we both really needed it. But it was more than just hope. It was love.
"I stayed in St. Eddie’s for nearly a year. Whenever the doctors considered sending me off to a commune, I did something utterly psychotic so that I could stay longer. One time I gathered all the undergarments I could find, strung them around my head on a belt, and paraded around the first floor whooping and hollering until they put me in a straightjacket."
John noticed a few strange looks directed his way. "Hey, it worked!" he said. "The only bad part was the medication. I avoided the pills whenever possible, but sometimes they forced me to take them—and let me tell you, anti-psychotics are not the most pleasant drugs.
"Anyway, Daisy and I grew closer as the months went by. We wrote each other poetry, which we had to destroy soon after reading. Sometimes we talked about running away to Europe, but we also recognized our slim chances. Then one day I woke up and she was gone. I heard another nurse had reported Daisy’s inappropriate relationship with me. So they transferred her to Baker Memorial Hospital on the spot.
"In a way the transfer worked out well. Daisy learned to practice medicine in a real hospital. Even though her nametag lacked the ‘M.D.’ label, she made her dream come true.
"But I discovered all that much later. Immediately after her transfer I was devastated. I had no idea what really happened to her; I just knew I had to find her. So next time the shrinks surveyed me, I acted as sane as a chaplain, and they sent me to the Word of God Commune. I didn’t mind the move. I knew I’d never find Daisy if I stayed at St. Eddie’s.
"I never realized I’d be trapped in the commune for the next eight years, transporting Bibles and surviving only through my imagination. When I couldn’t sleep, I composed poems and stories, but I had no way of writing them down. To this day, they remain in my mind alone.
"I met Marcus, Douglas’s nephew, when the C.P.s whipped both of us because of a drop in production. They used us as an example—to frighten all the workers into a frenzy of Bible printing, binding, sorting, and shipping. Marcus quickly became my only friend in the commune.
"Then a couple of years ago the nurses made us start taking the ‘vitamins.’ Marcus and I both refused to swallow them…until the barrel of a rifle convinced us. I don’t remember anything for about a year after the first pill. Their special ‘vitamins’ made us forget everything. Maybe that’s best.
"After a while, my brain must have adjusted to the chemicals. It was like my mind was struggling to resurface. I had no sense of time, but I recall vague, zombie-like feelings. I wanted to snap out of it—I wanted control of my mind—but the drugs wouldn’t allow it.
"Marcus helped me regain control. His mind must have been struggling as well, because he began to ask me questions about the pills. Whenever we experienced a brief moment of lucidity, we reminded each other of the little red crosses. Everyday he whispered to me, ‘Don’t take the vitamins.’ But I would forget his warning a few seconds later. Then one morning when I looked at the little red crucifix, I heard Marcus’s voice in my head. I swallowed for the nurse, but the pill remained in my hand.
"Soon my mind washed up in waves of memory. It was like…like some great halo of nebulosity had been lifted from my head. I was perpetually nauseated for a few weeks. Sometimes I just felt like snuffing it. But Marcus and I helped each other through the withdrawal period.
"As soon as we could think, we started planning. I had to get out of there. They had taken everything else, but I couldn’t allow them to steal my mind.
"We recruited a few others to help set up the escape. Before we pulled it off, I realized why they had drugged our minds away: they didn’t want the workers to think about joining the Underground—in fact, they didn’t want us to think at all.
"When I got my mind back, I heard about the Underground from gossip and read about it in copies of Christianity Today left lying around the commune. Then one day, as I skimmed the paper for news about the Underground, I saw Daisy in a photograph. She was standing beside a new, improved, post-surgical First Lady in the recovery room of Baker Memorial Hospital. I still remember the caption: ‘Praise the Lord! Mrs. Baker Recovers Under God’s Grace.’
"When I learned Daisy’s location, I knew I had to get out soon. I had to see her. Marcus told me everything he knew about his uncle Douglas and the Underground, and he eventually helped me escape. Before I left, I promised him he’d be free someday."
No one spoke for a while. Douglas broke the silence: "He will—and maybe sooner than he thinks. We’re almost prepared to put an end to the tyranny. Billy Baker is leading this country with a fake, plastic Jesus on one shoulder and a hyper-real Death on the other. He’s manufacturing the exact situations a president should try to avoid. We have suffered tragedy after tragedy at the hand of President Baker. But the worst tragedy of all is that most people, wrapped in this smothering blanket of God and Country, have lost sight of the meaning of life."
"What’s that?" asked John softly.
"To live!"
*****
The round-table discussion abruptly ended when Daisy’s camera began to move. Everyone turned toward the central video screen. The dark image became clear when Daisy turned on a light. She stood inside a simple yet elegant bedroom decorated in a white motif. An enormous painting of the Pieta scene hung on the wall above the bed. The camera jostled violently as Daisy walked across the room.
"The camera’s not very stable on the necklace," said Molly Thompson, the Underground’s head video technician, "but that’s the only drawback of this system…They’ll never suspect the camera."
Daisy now stood before a mirror. She wore a flowing, white gown, and her long hair hung in a ponytail. John stopped chewing his bagel and leaned forward in his chair. Daisy looked at the mirror reflection of her necklace and winked at her associates. John swallowed painfully.
Daisy pivoted at the sound of intrusion. Her camera showed the bedroom door open. A petite young woman wearing a blue dress and glasses walked in and said, "Good morning, Ms. Sapphire. Are you ready for breakfast?"
The camera jiggled up and down. "Okay then," said the young woman with a fake smile. Then she walked out and shut the door. Seconds later, a servant entered carrying a tray of every desirable breakfast food. He left it on the table next to the single window. "God bless you," he said as he exited.
Daisy attacked the bowl of cereal. The microphone relayed sounds of slurping, crunching, and swallowing—and one crescendo belch. Before she could empty the bowl, the bedroom door opened once again.
"I hope you remembered to say grace, Ms. Sapphire," said Billy Baker as he appeared wearing the same navy blue suit and tie, his white toupee slightly off-center.
"Grace," mumbled Daisy through a mouthful of milk and cereal.
Baker stared at her for a few seconds, then laughed hysterically. "That’s why I like you," he said. "You’re always saying the most clever things!"
Baker sat down at the table across from Daisy. The camera-shot cut off his head.
"Switch to extreme wide-angle, Jeffery," yelled Molly in the Underground communications room. "And tilt up five degrees!" The video image changed. Now Baker’s face appeared in a distorted, fish-eye view.
Baker sat across from Daisy, grinning, gawking. Daisy took one more bite of cereal then pushed the bowl away.
"Why am I here?" she asked.
"God’s Will," answered Baker. "I strive to be as Christ-like as possible, Ms. Sapphire. I’m a very merciful man. When I heard you had gotten arrested for possession, well, I thought to myself, ‘This is a good, decent girl, Billy, giver another chance.’ After all, Ms. Sapphire, we’re all sinners—we’re all dependent on the Lord in Heaven to save our Eternal Souls…"
"Save your shit for the sheep," said Daisy.
Baker’s eyes narrowed and his lips formed a heavy, bulldoggish frown. "I can only help you if you want to be helped," he said.
"I asked for neither your mercy nor your help," replied Daisy.
Baker jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over and further displacing his unruly toupee. He slammed both fists down on the table and said, "Look here, Ms. Sapphire, I’m trying to offer you a deal. But if you don’t want it, I’ll gladly watch your body rot in jail and your soul burn in Hell! I’ve been keeping an eye on you ever since we met after my wife’s first face-lift. I knew there was something…different about you—something about the way you looked at the world, acting like you own the whole damn place! In the past year, you’ve repeatedly violated at least 200 federal laws. Secretly visiting communes and treating drudges at night…Just who the hell do you think you are?"
Daisy kept silent and still. Baker calmed down, reclaimed his seat, and continued: "If I hadn’t intervened, you’d be behind bars for the rest of your life. But I like you, Ms. Sapphire. You’re such a…pretty little thing—so pretty that I’d enjoying seeing your face everyday. So here’s my modest proposal, Ms. Sapphire. You can spend the rest of your life wasting away in prison…or you can live the life of luxury—in this very room, if you like—as my personal medical attendant."
The camera rocked as Daisy first snorted then burst with laughter. Baker’s mouth dropped with anger, shock, confusion, and a hint of fear. He remained dumbfounded as Daisy continued to laugh. Between giggles Daisy blurted, "I’d rather spend eternity in that Hell you keep warning people about!"
Baker leaned back in his chair and said, "I see how you feel, Ms. Sapphire. I…I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but unless you accept my offer, you may not have much longer to live."
Daisy stopped laughing. "So you’re going to execute me if I refuse?"
"No, no, no!" said Baker. "Of course not! But I, uh, happen to believe that the United States may soon turn into one giant blasting zone. God promised that He would never again flood the Earth, but He said nothing about fire from the sky."
"What are you talking about?" asked Daisy.
"All right, Ms. Sapphire," said Baker. "You seem like a straightforward kinda gal, so I’ll be straightforward with you. Exactly one week from today, the West Coast of the United States will experience a brief…disruption. But don’t worry; they won’t feel a thing.
"I will interpret the disruption as aggressive military action from those yellow bastards in Japan. And then I’ll order a full-scale nuclear attack on their puny little island. I can’t wait to see that place after I bomb it! I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.
"But my military advisors tell me we might experience some retaliation. In fact, they say hundreds of missiles are aimed at the nation’s capital as we speak. Obviously, I won’t be here when they strike. I’ll be relaxing on some exotic island, safely enjoying the show from a distance. And so will you…if you accept my offer."
"Let me get this straight," said Daisy, "you’re going to attack your own country, blame it on Japan, and start a nuclear war?"
"Yes ma’am," said Baker, glowing with pride, as he lit a cigar.
"Why?" asked Daisy. "Wait—lemme guess—God’s Will?"
Baker smiled. "God’s Will! Ha! You should know by now that God’s Will is My Will. You want to know why I’m starting this war, Ms. Sapphire? Because it has to be done. I mean, I didn’t put together the most advanced military force in history just to guard the communes."
Douglas Gordon whispered, "I can’t believe he just admitted all that."
Other members of the Underground agreed. Molly said, "And it’s all on tape, too. This is just what we needed."
*****
"So," continued Baker, "how does my offer sound now?"
"I’ve already told you what I think of your offer," said Daisy.
Baker furrowed his brow and tilted his head to one side. "I just don’t understand you," he said. "You’d rather die in a nuclear war than follow me to safety?"
"Of course," said Daisy. "But I’m not worried about my safety. I don’t think there’s going to be any nuclear war."
Baker stood. "And why’s that?" he asked.
"I have my reasons," answered Daisy.
Baker smiled. He puffed a cloud of pungent smoke then tossed his cigar into Daisy’s cereal bowl. It fizzled in the pool of milk. Baker shoved the table away, eliminating the barrier between Daisy and himself. Daisy rose from her seat.
"You know, Ms. Sapphire," said the Reverend. "You’re very pretty in that gown. I picked it out myself, you know. But I bet you’d be even prettier without it."
Daisy said nothing. She backed away from Baker as he crept closer. She blocked his path with her chair, but he kicked it aside.
"Yes, Ms. Sapphire," continued Baker. "It looks like the Lord was generous when he made you—maybe too generous. And it’d be a shame to let all that beauty go to waste."
"Stay away from me," said Daisy as she backed into the corner.
"Aw, I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetie," said Baker. "I just want to share the glory of God’s love with you."
Baker unzipped his pants as he asked, "Are you prepared to accept Jesus into your heart, Ms. Sapphire?" But before Baker could expose his little Jesus, Daisy planted her foot in his crotch.
Baker fell to the floor, followed by his toupee. His face turned bright red to complete a red, white, and blue color scheme in his wardrobe. When Daisy tried to run past Baker, he grabbed her foot. Daisy hit the ground hard.
"It’s not that easy, bitch!" said Baker, still breathing heavily and holding his groin with one hand. With his other hand he dragged Daisy across the floor by her ankle. He managed to clumsily mount her and restrain her flailing arms only after she opened a gash across his cheek.
As Baker struggled to remove her clothing, Daisy said, "I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Reverend."
"Who’s gonna stop me?" he asked.
"Smile, asshole," said Daisy as she eyed her necklace, "you’re on candid camera!"
Baker lunged for the camera. "Why you ungrateful little whore!" he yelled. He snatched the necklace off Daisy’s neck, threw it to the ground, and madly stomped on it.
Suddenly two C.P.s burst into the room. "Is everything all right in here?" asked one.
"No! It’s not all right!" yelled Baker, blood trickling down his crimson face. He quickly zipped his pants and replaced his toupee. "This sinner tempted me and attacked me. Arrest her and get her out of here—now!"
*****
Everyone in the Underground communications room watched the altercation in awe. When Baker grabbed Daisy’s necklace, John rose from his chair. When static appeared on the screen, he dropped his half-eaten bagel and raced out of the room.
"John!" shouted Douglas. "Wait!"
It was too late. John was already on his way to the White House.