CHEKHOV’S GUN
“ENOUGH!” Roberto’s vocal implants struggled with the volume of his shout, the latter half of his word becoming static. “Put such heretical thoughts out of your mind, Danielle.”
“But that is the clever part, husband. It will not be us who partakes in such heresy.” She turned her eyes to Sylvia. “She will do it for us.”
Joel2 looked at his wife. She tried to hold his gaze, but her eyes kept falling to the floor, unable to face her shame reflected in his pupils. Fearful that anything he might say could push the terrorists toward more violence, he uncharacteristically opted to remain silent.
Roberto’s bony hand took his wife’s and held it. “To solicit unholy industry is to partake in it. Our daughter is dead, mi amor. It pains me as it pains you. We would not tarnish the sanctity of—”
“Hypocrite!” spat Danielle. “‘Does not each of you on the Sabbath untie your ox or donkey from the stall and lead it out to give it water? Then should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen long years, be set free on the Sabbath day from what bound her?’ That is Luke thirteen, husband,” she said, pulling her hand from his grasp.
“I know the scripture, wife. And do you dare compare our work to our Lord’s? We have before us the ayah. Joel and Sylvia Byram shall destroy International Transport by exposing the truth. Why veer from that plan in pursuit of a soul who is gone? Look at this poor empty vessel before us. He is not a man, but a puppet. His wife, the puppet mistress. This is what the world must know. When the other is found, we will have all the pieces we need. The world will not be able to think of teleportation without remembering their tragedy.”
“Untie me and you’ll see how much of a puppet I am,” said Joel2.
Felipe smiled from behind Sylvia. “Jes, untie him. Let’s see the puppet dance!”
Shila ignored them both. Then, lowering his voice to a mere whisper akin to the sound of a fork scraping a stone, he asked his wife, “Would you cast aside all our years of work? Our beliefs, our service to God? Would you sever your commitment to our people?”
“What do you know of commitment?” Danielle asked coldly. “You are like these seculars. They shake hands, exchange chits, give someone their word. What do these things mean? They change their minds five minutes later and the world goes on as if nothing happened. You want to know the words of commitment?” She raised her arms, her glowing robe making her look like an angel. “Pulsa D’nura. That is a commitment. Our daughter, she was the ayah we sought all this time. And her foolish father is too old and blind to see it.”
“No, mi amor. The Pulsa D’nura is a curse, not a miracle.”
“El que no cree,” she uttered scornfully, confounding Joel2, who was wishing now he’d paid more attention in Spanish class. “Suddenly everything can only have one meaning. You want a question?” Turning to Sylvia, she asked, “Tell me, bruja, what is the difference between a curse and a prayer?”
Sylvia continued staring at the floor.
“Tell me!” Danielle yelled.
“Don’t you fucking yell at my wife!” Joel2 shouted back.
Sylvia shook her head. Though he couldn’t see her eyes, he knew that she didn’t want him to aggravate the situation.
“Answer,” said Danielle, grabbing a fistful of Joel2’s hair. “Or I will dash out your creation’s brains on this table.”
“Intent,” Sylvia said, meeting her captor’s eyes.
“Sí, intent. And who determines intent?” Not waiting for an answer this time, she let go of Joel2 and pivoted to face her husband. “The Pulsa D’nura is a compact between creation and creator. It compels both to act. The request needs power, like fuel, like gravity. The more penitent the creation, the cleaner the fuel. In old times people sacrificed animals when they asked God for things. The more valuable the animal, the more public the display, the more fuel for their prayers. Personal sacrifice is a great fuel. Martyrdom, however, that is the greatest fuel of all.” Her eyes shone, bright and distant. “It wakes up the hibernating devout, the Gehinnomites who have been asleep for a generation or more. They have seen my Joanna’s sacrifice for a selfless cause. And when they see her rise again, a female Christ, they will be compelled by God to act!”
“Danielle,” Roberto pleaded. “Do you truly believe Joanna would—”
“Lo que haces se te devuelve, Roberto!” Danielle cut him off. “While you idled away your time with plots and strategies, our daughter planned her sacrifice. She delivered unto us the bruja and her puppet. What we do with them is up to us.”
“I won’t do it,” said Sylvia. “Honeycomb was a mistake. I shouldn’t have used it on Joel and I never will again.”
A mistake, thought Joel2 bitterly. Is that what she sees me as now? Before he could go further with that dark thought, Danielle gripped a handful of his hair again, yanking his head back to expose his throat.
“I do not care if he is the ayah or not.” She spoke quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on Sylvia. “Felipe will torture him just the same until you bring back my daughter. Judging by your resistance so far, he may end up losing a few teeth. Maybe a finger, an ear. But I suspect you will break before we take his eyes.”
“No!” Sylvia said.
“I agree,” said Roberto in his metallic voice. “No more. Felipe, please take Danielle away and confine her to her room. She is unwell.”
Felipe did not respond. Both of the ancient Gehinnomites looked to the guard. There was a rumble in the ground, like a low-magnitude, short-lived earthquake. Before anyone could comment on it, Danielle gave Felipe a single curt nod—
And the guard let go of Sylvia. He stepped forward, swinging a heavy red brick into Roberto Shila’s cheek. The strike was so powerful, it knocked the frail old man clear out of his wheelchair. As he fell, Roberto’s foot became tangled in the armrest, pulling the heavy chair on top of him. His small jamming weapon clattered across the floor.
Sylvia jumped as some of the old man’s blood splashed her face. Joel2 pulled against Danielle, but she removed a hunting knife from underneath her robe and held it under his chin. Her eyes were ringed with tears, but fierce.
“I thought you were supposed to be pacifists!” Joel2 yelled.
The old woman jerked her head toward her limp husband. “He was. And look where it got him. For decades we have peacefully protested your technology, and nothing changed. My daughter destroys one TC, and in a day we have both of you. You will do what we ask or continue to suffer the consequences.”
Her threat was delivered matter-of-factly, more a promise than a warning. She just ordered a hit on her own husband. Pretty sure she won’t go easy on me. He unconsciously found himself feeling his teeth with his tongue, imagining what it would feel like to have them ripped from his jaw one by one while his wife watched and begged them to stop. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but they couldn’t give in to these assholes, either. “Fuck you,” he said to Danielle.
Felipe dropped the bloody rock. He briskly walked across the room and took the knife from Danielle. Keeping one hand on Joel2’s bound wrists, he pressed the blade to the base of his right pinkie. “Puta estúpida. You will change your song soon enough.”
He pressed down on the knife. Pain bit into Joel2’s hand. A thin line of blood ran down his palm, dripping onto the gray stone floor. Danielle nodded for him to continue, her face shining with expectation.
“Wait!” said Sylvia. Felipe and Danielle turned. “If … if I do this, do I have your word we are free to go?”
“What?” Joel2 said, shocked that she would even entertain the notion after all they’d been through. “Sylvia! Don’t—” He bent over coughing as Felipe socked him in the solar plexus.
“My word?” Danielle spat on the floor near the discarded bloody brick. “Here is my word. I will take you with me to the hospital, bruja. Felipe will have his pliers and knives, keeping your husband company. Should you waver, you will watch on my comms as Felipe removes teeth, nails, then fingers with each of your hesitations. Then, with my daughter by my side, you, bruja, will fulfill my husband’s last wish and confess everything you have done—your sins—to the world. If you are still alive after that, you are free to go live your miserable lives.”
There was a long silence, during which Joel2 made eye contact with Felipe. He saw in the Gehinnomite’s expression that he would follow through on everything Danielle had promised, and more. He would relish it.
“I’ll do it,” said Sylvia.
For good measure, Felipe punched Joel2 in the gut several more times, making him double over in the chair. He curled there, wheezing.
“I’m sorry, Joel.” Sylvia looked down at her husband, her eyes bright with tears. And she told him the only truth in all of this. “I couldn’t lose you.”
Danielle clapped her hands together once. “Then we are agreed, bruja. Felipe, comm the gatehouse. Tell them we are ready to depart.”
The guard looked off for a moment, then shrugged. “They are not answering.”
There was a sharp knock at the door of the small room. Felipe and Danielle looked at each other quizzically.
“I told them to stay down there until we were done,” the old woman cursed, walking to the door and opening it. “¿Cuándo los tontos te—”
Although the blast came first, the gaping, bloody hole in Danielle’s back was the first sensory input Joel2’s mind latched on to. More blood sprayed Sylvia. The old woman collapsed onto the floor, a puddle of thick dark-red liquid burbling out of the hole in her flickering LED robe.
“¿Qué mierda?” said Felipe, running forward, the knife in his hand.
His question was answered in the form of a second blast. Its thunderous reverberation shook the walls and wine bottles. Felipe spun around as a twenty-gauge copper slug took his arm off at the shoulder. His other hand clawed at the now-empty space, then he, too, dropped to the floor and lay still.
Joel2 and Sylvia looked at each other, terrified about what new trauma awaited them. A rustle of clothes shifted their attention to the doorway. Stepping over Danielle’s corpse, gingerly avoiding the growing puddles of blood, was Bill Taraval. He wore a crisp white IT lab coat, now flecked with red drops, over his cargo shorts and floral-print shirt. His breath was shaky. In his hands was the Remington Model 870 Express seven-round, pump-action shotgun Joel2 had become acquainted with earlier.
“Oh my,” Taraval said, letting the shotgun fall to his side as he surveyed the scene. “My, my, my. What a mess.”
Joel2 was still tied to the chair, unsure if he should move. Sylvia, however, stepped forward. “Bill! Thank God. Where did you find that?”
Taraval seemed to come back to himself, lifting the shotgun again and studying it. “Ah yes. The third and most effective of the thirty-six stratagems: kill with a borrowed sword.” He swung it back down, pointing the barrel at Joel2’s forehead.
Joel2 winced. “Hey, man, you mind not pointing that barrel in my face?”
“A perfectly poignant proposal,” Taraval said, nodding. Then he pulled the trigger.
Click.
“Joel!” Sylvia yelled.
Realizing the gun was out of shells, Joel2 tried to get to his feet. The chair still bound to his wrists, he awkwardly ran at Taraval, but the man whipped the shotgun around, swinging the stock into the side of his head. Joel2 slipped in a puddle of Danielle’s blood, cracking his skull against the wall. He dropped back into a sitting position.
“Stop!” screamed Sylvia. She ran at Taraval, but as her hands were still tied behind her back, there wasn’t much she could do but accost him. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done the first time around,” he answered in a measured tone. “Your lack of objectivity has now pulled me into your derailment. I have been cut loose, set adrift, ruined. And all because of this thing”—he brought the butt of the gun down on Joel2’s face—“you call ‘husband.’” A large wound opened above Joel2’s right eye, blood coating his face. He slumped over, not moving.
“No!” Sylvia cried.
Taraval shook Joel2’s blood off the butt of his weapon. Calmly, he said, “Come now, Sylvia, surely you knew this was how things would end when you messaged me this morning. Even if you are unwilling to clean up your messes, someone must. And not just for me, no. For the benefit of humanity.”
He looked off suddenly, noticing something on the floor. “Fascinating. This must be some sort of—” He meandered to Roberto’s egg-sized device, picked it up, and examined it closely. “A proximity jammer! How clever. Thank goodness he didn’t get a click off on me. You know, Sylvia, for a murder of pacifist crows, these Gehinnomites seem to have a rather ironic affinity for antique weapons, wouldn’t you say?” Pocketing the device, he then advanced on my wife with the shotgun. “Hear that?” Taraval smiled. “No, of course you wouldn’t without use of your comms,” he mused smugly. “It appears paramedics are en route. Well, destiny is ne’er kind to those truant,” he said, taking her by the arm. “Our coach awaits.”