“Her engagement ring,” said John as his eyes started to water up.
“Whatever,” said the attendant with a shrug, “If she came through the standard check in, I assure you she’d have been divested of her ring long before she got to this main holding area.” He patted the pocket of his lab jacket containing the stolen items. “The ASC bodies like your fiancé are always the worst. We leave the jewelry items on just in case a relative shows up for ID, but we always remove them on checkout before burial. You won’t find any report on her death other than the tag on the toe.”
The attendant bent and read the toe tag aloud, “Airwar Death,” and he glanced back at the body, “The bad ones look pretty much the same.”
John was acutely aware of this fact as he sent many a victim to this very morgue. He wiped his eyes with his hand and appeared to have regained his composure. “Okay, what about the study? What was ASC looking for?”
“How the hell should I know?” said the attendant, “I’m just a minimum wage dead body clerk,” and he sarcastically added, “ASC doesn’t report to me on a regular basis regarding their classified studies.”
John frowned at the attendant. The attendant assumed a cowering stance, realizing he over-stepped the line.
“Leave me!” ordered John, and he dismissed the attendant with a flick of his hand. John figured at this point it didn’t matter what kind of autopsy data ASC was collecting. He only hoped their findings would help end the crisis.
John proceeded to a large window counter at the back of the morgue. A sign above it read Gym Equipment Check out and Towel Return. A notice on white poster board was taped below the sign. Victim Deposition was handwritten in black marker. Behind the counter working on a computer was a short, obese woman in her late forties. Her blonde hair was done in a bee-hive hairdo. She looked at John over her reading glasses and motioned for him to hand her the posting.
“I’m here to make arrangements for my fiancée,” said John, handing her the death posting.
Without a word she looked at the posting page and began typing on the computer.
“Deposition has already been arranged,” said the clerk without looking up from the monitor,“ the body is to be cremated tonight.”
“Who made the arrangements?” John said with surprise.
The clerk glanced at John’s hospital ID badge, then looked back at the monitor, “Are you her stepbrother?”
“No,” said John. “I’m her fiancée.”
“Well,” she said with a slight annoyance in her voice, “her stepbrother, who is listed as next of kin, made the provisions already.”
“Could you give me his contact information?” said John, “The number I have for him doesn’t work.”
The clerk frowned as she saw the line forming behind him.
“Look, doc,” she said, now clearly irritated, “all my records say is, arrangements by stepbrother. There’s no contact information listed. Your name is not on her file, so I couldn’t give you contact details even if I had them. Now, if you don’t mind, others are waiting.” The clerk motioned to the lady behind John to move forward.
John stepped aside and pulled out his cell phone. He tried the one number he had for Chunky. An out of service signal was all he could get. In a way, John was relieved he didn’t have to inform Chunky. Although John wanted to arrange a private funeral and burial, he didn’t feel like fighting over the deposition of the body. At this point it wouldn’t make a difference to Cassandra. He shuffled out of the hospital in the black shroud of night, not caring what he might meet in the darkness on his way home.
CHAPTER 8
PASSIVE WARRIORS
John arrived at his condominium shortly after midnight. He couldn’t sleep. At six a.m. he took 20mg of diazepam, causing him to doze for the next twenty-four hours. For the next week he remained absent to the world, not leaving his condominium. Multiple calls from the hospital were ignored. He lived on Ramen noodles, diazepam, and root beer.
On the eighth day he finally broke free from his sedative-induced haze. He began walking to get away from the condominium and the various reminders of Cassandra. His appearance looked more like a homeless druggie than a successful physician as he wandered downtown. His hair was unkempt, his eyes swollen and red from crying. He wore nothing but flip-flops, a light blue t-shirt, and matching surfing shorts, which he’d slept in for the last week.
John’s emotions swung repeatedly between grief and absolute rage. After a couple of hours, only from pure Brownian motion, he ended up at Lake Eola in the downtown park. The giant central fountain was flowing in the twenty-acre lake framed by an early morning cloudless blue sky. It seemed bizarre, with the world in crisis. Somewhere, some way, someone was making sure the fountain ran. He could take no joy in its beauty today as blackness crowded out any pleasant feelings.
In front of him, several hundred “passive warriors” from the “Love the Airwar League” had cast their clothes aside. With the exception of pumpkin orange arm and headbands, the passive warriors all laid prostrate on the ground, completely naked. This display was presumably to demonstrate passive unity in the city to the airwars.
Over the last few days, airwars had been using the lake as a drinking station. The airwars would glide over the water surface, let down a tube called the central siphon and take on water. ASC discovered airwars electrolyzed water into hydrogen and oxygen. Electrocytes, similar to those found in electric eels, were contained in specialized tentacles. These long serial arrays created voltages needed for electrolysis in small organs under the hydrogen sac. The sac collected hydrogen, and oxygen was released. Lighter than air, hydrogen allowed the creatures to remain airborne similar to early zeppelins.
John thought of the televised press conference the night before. It was the first time he watched television in over a week. ASC spokesman Glavin was at the podium. “For the last two days the heroic members of the Love the Airwar League have placed themselves in the paths of airwars coming to drink,” said Glavin.
A B-roll clip of airwars passing over the unclothed bodies was shown.
“As you can see, the airwars are lifting their tentacles to avoid these passive warriors,” said Glavin, grinning widely, “This is a remarkable confirmation that our Run, Hide and Do No Harm policy is the correct path to follow.” He raised his arms to the heavens.
John reached for the remote, but before he could turn the television off, Glavin pointed directly at the screen.
“Should one err and join the militia filth—this is what happens,” said Glavin, with vitriol.
Clips from the Zimbabwe Colossus video started running. John turned the television off with disgust. The last thing he wanted to watch was a lecture on how to get along with airwars . . .
Now, absolute rage replaced the black despair. He loathed airwars. He wanted to kill, but he knew the futility in that action. Ultimately, he wanted fewer, not more, airwars. He hung his head again and felt impotent as melancholy returned.
A middle-aged man with a gray beard wearing only round, wire-framed glasses and an orange wristband called to him, “Brother, shed your clothes and become a passive warrior with us. The key to victory is passivity.”
John turned and walked away. Somehow, lying naked in the paths of airwars didn’t seem a great strategy, even though it was the current politically correct action.
As John was winding his way through all the naked bodies, he noticed several airwars appearing between buildings on the edge of the lake. The reflection of the