The Refugee Sentinel (5 page)

The Maharishi squinted at the near-perfect darkness inside the hut. He sat still until he made out the contours of a single room. Another step forward and he would have stepped in sheep feces on the dirt floor. The furniture consisted of hay bedding in one corner and a coal pit in the center. A part of him didn’t mind reconnecting with places like this. Peasant rooms rekindled his love for mother China better than any historic reenactment or hologram at the Museum of History in Shanghai. He was one of the lucky ones crisscrossing China and helping the country folk earmark the loved ones of those in the West – a most noble calling.

Nonetheless, three months of dredging from one Chengdu village to another had taken their toll. He missed his wife and son, and he missed the glass condo in Jingqiao. He could go back to them in three weeks, if he were lucky. He closed his eyes and inhaled in a string of small breaths. He was a shadow of the Maharishi, or what the Westerners called the High-Potential, before his trip began. These days, it took him extra-long to summon meditation and replace the worries for his family with inner peace. At least he could be of service to China to the best of his insignificant abilities.

The hut smelled of fish soup. An old woman squatted by the dead coal-pit on the floor, stirring a pot blackened by many other soups before this one. The Maharishi spoke in Mandarin, the only language the woman understood.

“Good morning, tai Mother.”

“Are you hungry for fish soup?”

He bowed to show respect, given he was about to decline the offer. “I am full, tai Mother. Thank you. The Party sent me to enlist you, if your name is Jie Ying.”

“I’ve been expecting you.”

The Maharishi produced a tablet from his suitcase. The device glowed in stark contrast with its non-digital surroundings. He knelt by the old woman and raised the tablet to her head. Blue laser lights scanned her face and a digital chirp confirmed her identity.

“May I guide your finger, tai Mother?” the Maharishi said and pressed the woman’s index finger against the touch screen. The blue laser re-scanned her face, the tablet chirped again and this time its screen turned green.

“Now I need to hold another finger to the glass, tai Mother.” The Maharishi scanned the woman’s thumb and the tablet made one final sound. Then the blue laser flicked off and the screen dimmed.

The Maharishi stood up and bowed. Jie Ying bowed in return.

“Thank you, Dianxia,” she said, “It’s an honor to help our Motherland.”

The Maharishi walked out of the hut and into the cold morning air about to be warmed by the early sun. He squinted at the light and reviewed the screen one last time before shutting down the tablet. First, he double-checked his next destination: a voter Meng Fa, seventy-nine years old, living in a village thirty miles down the river. Then, he re-read the confirmation of what Jie Ying had done: “Voting Event: Defiance Day || Citizenship: US Territory || Social Security Number: 231-010-8760 || Name: Yana Perkins || Date of Birth: December 25, 2044 || Status: Successfully Earmarked.”

“Maggie. Good to meet you,” the blonde dancer said.

“I’m Colton.”

“You a regular here, Colton?”

He hesitated. “First-timer.”

“Yes, you are,” she said. “I would have remembered you otherwise. I’m good with faces. And you are how old?” She sounded like a primary care provider during his initial patient visit.

“Forty-three.” He should have left this place by now. The smell was making him sick. “You?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

Colton followed with the most banal question a customer could ask his stripper. “Have you been doing this long?”

“Five years. Got into it somehow.”

“You’ve got another three weeks left until we all vote and go to hell.”

“Way to murder the mood.”

“Sorry, I was –“

“Relax, Colton. I was giving you a hard time.”

“Have you voted yet?”

“Are you a Defiance Day cop or something? Like you said, I have three weeks left to earmark someone.”

Colton sighed. “Earmark. Sacrifice. What does that even mean?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Maggie put hands on his shoulders. “I get it. You must have just got up from a coma or you’ve travelled here from the past.”

His laughter joined hers. “I know what Defiance Day is.”

“No,” her exaggerated denial. “Prove it, Mr. Teleportation.”

“I do. I’m just floored by how these words have crept into the language, to help us to send each other to the slaughterhouse.” He raised both arms in the air. “But who am I to question ULE’s finest decree.”

The waitress reappeared. “Hi, sexies.” Now that he was almost a paying customer, he had graduated from a “honey” to a “sexy.” “Would you like to buy this lovely lady a drink, sir?”

Before he could reply, Maggie leaned on his shoulder. “I’d like a small Red Bull.” Her right breast nudged against his hand.

“Sure,” Colton handed over a crisp fifty-dollar bill, “one small Red Bull for her.” The waitress snatched the money like a vending machine and dashed away.

Maggie kept leaning on him. “And what do you do?”

“I work for a casino. I tweak their betting algorithms and design new gaming products for their clientele.” He didn’t expect her to understand, but she did.

“Are you trying to impress me with fifty-dollar words?”

“Am I?”

“You’re a programmer who codes the software in roulettes to make the odds worse for gamblers like me.”

He should have checked his prejudice at the door. “You got it; that’s what I do.”

“The next time I’m at the Sno and lose at roulette, I’ll know who to blame.”

“And you?” he said. “Did you pick up your British accent in London?”

The waitress reappeared with a Red Bull for Maggie and no change for Colton. The end of the world did a number on inflation, he thought.

Maggie smiled under the coat of makeup meant to give her face a mysterious look. “Never been to London,” she said. “Can’t imagine I’ll be going. Not anymore. Not with Earth being a single-country planet.”

“You still can if you want to.”

“The government of the United Lands of Earth and its high-as-a-kite capital in Mexico City doesn’t care about giving London papers to a girl like me. I can’t travel with a young son at home, anyway. This joint gives me all the fun a single mom needs.”

Colton glanced at her breasts. Under the bra they looked as small as they had felt against his palm. If she were telling the truth, her son must be older.

“You know what a pain traveling can be,” she said. “I’m lucky I like Seattle. And I wonder how the poor bastards from say, Lincoln, Nebraska must feel like, stuck in their corn-hole.” Maggie threw her head back and laughed, her neck vein pulsating with each breath and her breasts ballooning closer to his face, exposing both nipples. She fanned her fluttering eyelids with a hand. “The short of it is, I’ve never been much of a traveler, even before they closed the West Coast airports.” She wiped the corners of her eyes with a pinkie, careful not to smear the mascara. “But enough about me, Mister. You married?”

“I used to be. But she left me.”

“Good riddance. You wouldn’t be here otherwise, I take it.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come anyway.”

“On the contrary. When’s the last time you had sex?”

“Not sure. Maybe a year.”

She looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re the only male I know who doesn’t rush to Screwville, with Armageddon around the corner.”

“Maybe no one’s offering.”

“I’m sure it could be arranged.” Maggie emptied the last of the Red Bull and slapped her naked knee. “Should we do what you came here to do, Colton?”

“I didn’t bring a condom.”

Maggie laughed. “I meant a lap-dance, tiger.”

“For three hundred?”

“Three hundred.” Her eyelids opened and closed, instead of a head nod. “I heard you’re hard to move on that one.” Maggie took Colton’s hand and headed for the VIP booths in the back. She adjusted him into the deep plush of a purple sofa. By the third song, she had unbuttoned his shirt and was rubbing her oiled body against his chest. Colton’s senses focused on Maggie’s warmth as the booming music receded in the background. And he let her rock him, like a doomed Titanic in the middle of a lifeless ocean. His missing Sarah didn’t go away. But he did doze off and given the circumstances, that was a win. At some point, he realized the gyrations had stopped and opened his eyes to see Maggie’s petulant smile an inch from his face. Her teeth glistened in the neon lights with almost menacing whiteness.

“I hope I didn’t put you to sleep,” she said and laughed as her fingers twisted his bare nipples. “Go on, say yes and break my heart.” Colton’s eyes paused on hers then moved to the surroundings. He stifled a groan at the realization he was still in Déjà Vu, instead of in a bad dream he could leave by waking. He lifted Maggie by the waist.

“How much?”

“How about fifteen hundred,” she said, “I danced five times and felt super comfortable with you. You had a good time too, no?”

“Is there a cash machine around?” Colton’s face was losing color by the minute.

“You don’t think I’d lie to you, right? It was five dances.” Maggie sounded almost apologetic. “I’ll show you the cash machine.” She took him by the hand and, with an unbuttoned shirt he followed. She rubbed his shoulders while he waited for the ATM to dispense money. “By the way, clients usually don’t tell me their real names,” she said, “Why did you?”

“Didn’t think not to, I guess.”

“You know,” she said. “How about you meet me after I finish work in an hour? Would be nice to spend time, like normal people.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that having sex would be a bad idea.”

“How about a conversation and a single malt at my place?”

“Your house?” He blinked. “Isn’t it illegal to meet with clients?”

“You’ll tell on me?” Her bleached teeth winked at him again. The ATM shoved the cash against his palm and he passed the bills to Maggie without bothering to count them. She had earned it. After all, she had him fooled into forgetting Sarah, if for a moment.

“Are you really sure that’s a good idea?”

“You’re acting cute and coy. You’d almost think I’m the customer here.”

“Maggie,” he spoke her fake name for the first time. “I’m dealing with this problem that –”

“Defiance Day is a bitch, no?” she said with a tired smile. The booming music changed from a ballad to reggae. “I got to go. I’ll be done in an hour.” She sniffed and pulled on her bra. “See you outside?” She kissed him on the cheek and walked toward Déjà Vu’s main stage and neon lit up the tattoos on her back.

She met him as promised, an hour later, her stilettos rattling against the parking lot pavement like a machine gun. “Here I am.” She smiled and her teeth didn’t look menacing in the moonlight. Her face looked ten years younger without the mascara. “You ready?”

“You’re a different person with clothes on.” Colton meant it as a joke but she shot him a tired gaze and a sigh. He led her to his car and she sat in the passenger seat, palms tucked between her knees, like an interrogated person wanting to show she had nothing to hide.

He started the engine and wondered how she felt after work. Sweaty? Victorious? In the seat next to him, she punched her address in the car’s GPS. If he didn’t want sex, as he had said, why was he driving a stripper to her apartment, instead of sleeping in his own bed… alone? He remembered how Sarah insisted on always saying what was on their minds. She was a scientist and subtleties didn’t fly. In their old world, saying no to sex would have meant having no sex. How low he had fallen without her.

“You can park in any spot without a number on it,” Maggie said. The tidy residential building glistened on the outside. Colton nestled the car in an opening between two high-end Volkswagens and killed the engine. He looked at Maggie and wanted to say something supportive but the metamorphosis of the girl, since exiting Déjà Vu had left him speechless. If he hadn’t felt her naked body on his, he wouldn’t have guessed the semi-asleep young woman burrowed in his passenger seat was a dancer. Even her tattoos were hidden under jeans and a tee. On the other hand, why was he so eager to stereotype her? What right did a killer of daughters have to judge a stripper?

He followed her into the apartment and ended in a small kitchen decorated with bunches of dried lavender and colorful clay pots strung on a line over a gas stove. She invited him to sit at a table inside a wall nook and emptied the last of a dusty Johnny Walker bottle between two glasses.

“So what do you for fun?” he said.

“I like to study old paintings to find out what the painter had in mind when he created the piece.”

“Do you paint too?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Strippers don’t paint. I just enjoy watching paintings of mayhem. The larger the devastation, the more it draws me in.”

He smiled. “You should just tune to the news if you want devastation.”

“Our devastation is boring. Theirs was poetic.”

Colton scratched his nose. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Let’s take “The Battle of Waterloo,” for example. I could study it for hours, like a giant Where’s Waldo puzzle. The dying horses, the men impaled by bayonets in isolated skirmishes, the pockets where the hopeless French fight on despite Wellington having already won.” She twirled the shot glass on the table. “Napoleon’s remaining men were like French lavender tossed across an angry British sea, surviving one wave, maybe two, but due to succumb by nightfall.”

“You have an appreciation for history.”

“With human history as crazy as is, how could you not?”

“The fight to save the polar caps today feels like one of your devastation paintings,” he said. “With us being the French, of course.”

Maggie’s hand massaged the back of her neck. “Look who’s the poet now.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t sound like what you do.”

“No kidding. I realized I was a good dancer when I was seventeen. My way of being creative, you see.” She took a sip and grimaced at the whiskey’s potency. “And now you’ll ask me how many people I’ve slept with.”

“I don’t judge you, Maggie.”

“Yes, you do.” Her quiet words cut off his next sentence. “The only reason you’re here is screw me for a couple of hundred bucks and jerk off in my face, before the door hits your judgmental ass on the way out.”

“I’m sorry I came.” Colton stood up, unsure where to put his hands. She took them in hers.

“If I ask you not to judge me, the least I can do is offer the same in return. And stop being so serious, you wouldn’t be here unless I wanted you to be.” She slurped at the last of her whiskey and looked at him. For the first time, Colton didn’t avert her gaze. “Answer me a question, Mr. I-Know-Defiance-Day-Cold.”

“Who’s making fun of who now?”

“When everyone votes for someone else to die, wouldn’t everyone die?”

“Wouldn’t that be a snag,” he said. “And you’d be right, but for the Sacrifice votes.”

“So what?”

“So those who receive a Sacrifice will survive Defiance Day. And the future will be populated by silver-spooners. Other than the children, of course. I’m sure you’ll sacrifice for your son.”

“Lying about being a mom is a part of my gig in the club.”

Colton smiled. “You’ll make a great mom one day. When you get around to it.” He squeezed her hand, which still held his. She didn’t squeeze back. “This stripper gig you do,” he said. “You’re better than that. If I were fifteen years younger, I wouldn’t need a lap-dance to ask you out.”

“You’re asking me out?”

“Sure I am. Let’s do lunch, sometime. You know… as if I were your old and funny uncle or an even older friend.”

Her hand pulled away. “What if your niece has had four abortions and more failed relationships than she cared to remember?”

“We’ve all messed up. But we do carry on.”

“Do me a favor?”

“What is it?”