NOTE: Also available in an audio blog on SubStack - The Silencing
The clock struck five, and Andrea's alarm went off. She quickly rolled over to the side of the bed where her Little Mermaid alarm rang the 'Under the Sea' theme song, which Andrea started humming. She let the alarm go for a few seconds allowing her body and mind to wake. She hit the off button before the noise woke her dad, who slept alone in the next room. It had been three years since Andrea's mom died in a car accident, and not a day had passed when Andrea rolled off the bed, got on her knees, and prayed that her mom was well and happy in heaven.
Andrea was just twelve years old but was mature beyond her years. As her mother lay on her deathbed, she whispered into Andrea's ear. Take care of your dad. Andrea took those words to heart and did all she could to help her father around the house. By the time her dad woke up every morning, she prepared his coffee, removed the trash, and walked the dog.
Trash was Andrea’s dread. Somehow, the trash bins in the kitchen and washroom were always full. Today was no different. Andrea forced everything into one bag. When she finished stuffing everything into one bag, it stood almost as tall as her. Persistent as Andrea was – she didn’t shy from a challenge. She stretched out her arms and bear-hugged the bag. Carefully, she walked with a waddle down the hallway to the front door. She laughed at her reflection in the mirror near the entrance as her long, brown, frizzy hair pointed in all directions over the bag. She carefully placed the bag on the floor and opened the front door.
With the door open, she bear-hugged the bag again and walked out the front door towards the trash can. Over the bag, she noticed a bright light just a few yards away at the center of their lawn. The light was blinding and Andrea dropped the bag and used both hands to shield the light from her eyes. She tried turning away but saw two tall figures just three feet away. She stopped and hastily began stepping back. Andrea took a deep breath and tried to let out a harrowing yell, but nothing came out. Andrea couldn't breathe, she felt as if an apple had been stuck down her throat. She grabbed her throat and fell to her knees. She tried to grab the trash bag next to her, but her body was frozen and numb. She could see the figure walking up to her, picking her up, and taking her to the bright light. Andrea tried to fight, but couldn’t even move - her attempts were useless. She felt her body consumed by the bright light and felt her body ascend to the sky and into an unknown darkness.
When they say it was just another day, it was. Jorge was going through the motions of his morning routine without having to think. By the time he paid attention to his actions and what was happening around him, he was already out the door. If it weren't for the door's deadbolt, he wouldn't have noticed he was leaving his home without his keys. He stood there staring at the door for what seemed like ten seconds and asked himself, "How did I....?" and his body and mind aligned and kicked into gear. He ran back into the house and retrieved his keys from the sofa.
His small mixed terrier, which looked more like an unkempt mop, ran around his feet, thinking he was back from work. Instead, Jorge petted the furry rag that was his dog, ran out the door, and locked the deadbolt behind him. He heard a few barks before he jumped in his truck and turned the 1979 Chevy V8 motor, which likely frightened the dog to silence and back into his crate. It didn't take Jorge long to get to his barber shop. The shop was within walking distance, but Jorge expected to be on his feet for eight to ten hours, and saving every little bit of strength and strain was worth the drive.
Barbering was new to Jorge. He had never considered it a career or even a job he'd been interested in. The fact that he owned a barbershop made him laugh. Jorge didn't style his hair or enjoyed styling others. To him, barbering was logical. Every child, teenager, and adult needed a haircut, and they always would. It seemed almost as common and necessary as a grocery store. People may not want a haircut, but they still do it regularly. That logic meant a steady stream of income, though a relatively small stream.
After Jorge left the Navy, he needed a completely new life. Gone were globe-trotting days under the Navy's covert Submarine Group 7 where he and his colleagues were sent to collect, analyze, and act on information about adversaries and national interests. Nowadays, Jorge simply looks forward to spending time with his dog and a warm, bitter cup of coffee.
Jorge's background and credentials were unique, something you wouldn't ever see with a barber. He had a bachelor's in game theory from Standford, which primarily meant he was trained in negotiations and recognizing the correlations among the players in a game. That skill drew the ire of the Navy where he was recruited into the Naval Intelligence. Laughable now, Jorge imagined a world where he'd be hiding in dark corners and bumping up against adversaries. Instead of being James Bond, he was more like Dilbert.
Jorge wasn't part of the Human Intelligence division, the folks tasked with building informants, directly spying on adversaries, and chasing the things that go bump in the dark. Instead, he was an Analyst, something more akin to a desk jockey, albeit one with access to the most classified and sensitive information.
After ten years of reading, analyzing, interpreting, and recommending cold-hearted action, he had to simplify his life. Stress had taken a physical and mental toll. Jorge was tall and had an athletic build for most of his life. After six years in the military, which kept him tied to desks on warships, or worse, submarines, he gained a lot of weight and was unhealthy. He barely passed the Navy's annual physical, a cakewalk amongst the services. At his ninth anniversary, the culmination of Jorge's work was recognized up to the Secretary of the Navy, where he was promoted to Chief Petty Officer, a feat hard to achieve in the Navy, let alone Naval Intelligence. Jorge wasn't happy though; he yearned for a simpler life.
Jorge settled in the small town of Arivaca, Arizona. Calling the town 'small' is an understatement. Jorge worked and lived on Naval ships with populations three or four times that of Arivaca. He needed a small town. The stacks of reports he wrote or read warning of imminent attacks in almost every major city made him paranoid. When Jorge's friend, Abel, invited him to stay at his winter home in Arivaca, he took the offer. After a week in town, he learned that the town barbershop was up for sale. Jorge knew nothing about barbering, but he knew that people always needed a haircut. So, he cashed out his savings and bought the business as-is. Quickly, he realized he needed to learn how to cut hair, so he spent a few months driving to Tucson to attend barber school and attained his certification. Fast forward six months, Jorge was not only a business owner, but was chopping hair, trimming beards, and waxing nose and ear hair.
Jorge realized something after the first month: he felt like he was back in the military. Back then, intelligence officers would shower him with information that needed his attention. A lot of it was credible and important, but a lot of it was misinformation or counterintelligence. The information he got behind the barber’s chair was gossip and all kinds of it. The older folks tended to share lucid details about the city administration: cops having affairs, the fire chief being a drunk, the city supervisor being a lesbian, and the high school principal faking his credentials. The younger crowd was a bit more interesting; they talked about the bomb fires in the desert and the wild drinking parties, the parties in Mexico that were a stone's throw away across the border, and the frat and sorority parties at the University of Arizona just forty minutes out of the city. The kids though, those under ten years old though had the best and most interesting stories. Kids had no filter, they'd share everything about their parents: the cheating, domestic abuse, drinking, and drugs. With all the channels of information he had available to him, he could have created dossiers on everyone in town. Instead, he just let it go in one ear and out the other.
When he eventually got to work that morning, three older men were waiting for him to open his shop. They were all walk-ins, most haircuts were. These folks though weren’t from town. The three men were in their mid to late forties, tall, and relatively fit. They wore clothes that looked more than just clean, they were all new and expensive; Salomon hiking shoes, Patagonia jackets, North Face pants. This wasn't anything alarming to Jorge, but it was different. Hikers that normally ran through the area and headed into the National Park normally wore weathered clothes. These guys seemed like they just stepped out of an REI catalog.
The three men were all pleasant and tipped Jorge and his employee, Marty – his only full-time worker. Marty had noticed that the three men looked a bit out of place, especially after he saw them drive off in a Black Mercedez G-Wagon. Almost no one in town had the type of money, but members of the cartel across the border would use Arivaca as a pit stop between Nogales, Sonora Mexico, and Tucson, AZ. The two brushed off the encounter and continued with their busy day.
When Jorge drove up to his driveway, the sun had just dropped, and clouds in the desert sky were painted purple and blue. Jorge stared at the sky and lost himself in the moment until he noticed his dog wasn't barking. Normally, the dog would bark and howl when he drove up the driveway. He was instantly worried that his dog was sick or injured. He fumbled his keys as he yanked them out of his pocket and ran to the front door. That's when he noticed the front door was open. He froze and stared at the door. He remembered locking the deadbolt. He took a few steps back slowly, knowing not to go in. As he pivoted, he saw a hand reach out to him and knock him to the floor. A person jumped on him, while other hands grabbed him by the legs and arms and dragged him into his home. He cried out, but it was no use. Thick tape was quickly applied over his mouth. A thick, black bag was synched over his head. Jorge thrashed his arms and legs, trying to hit anyone near his limbs. Numerous strong hands though zipped tied his legs and arms, until he was synched up like a hog. Jorge tried to move, but rolling side-to-side like a turtle was the most he could do.
The older, taller man in the group walked up to two of his partners. “Thank you. You can leave now - I’ll handle it from here.” The two men just turned and walked away.
A pair of hands checked Jorge’s ankles and then his waist. The man quickly found the Sig Saur P365 holstered in his lower back. Jorge groaned as he heard the magazine ejected and the round in the chamber hit the ground. Jorge felt a large person settle next to him who removed the bag from his head. Jorge instantly recognized the man from the barbershop. The tall man smiled and removed the tape over Jorge's mouth.
"Hi Jorge," the man calmly said with a voice akin to a radio host. Jorge looked at the man's features and assessed whether he knew the man. "I need some information from your time in the military." Jorge let out a chuckle. "I know you were in Naval Intelligence and assigned to analyze threats from around the world." Jorge nodded but still didn't say anything. "I need to know about a threat code-named Operation Sky Fire." The man could see Jorge thinking. "Let me remind you. It was a novel threat involving abductions of young children." Jorge's mind turned and the tiny hairs on his arms stood straight up. "Ahh... you remember," the man asked as he saw Jorge react. "Let me fully remind you in case your mind is cloudy. Sixty children were abducted, all children in the Southern California region. The children were taken at dawn. People reported bright lights and strange, hard-to-distinguish people in the area immediately before and after the abductions. Remember this?"
Jorge let out a deep sigh and spoke. "Yes, I remember that case." Jorge tried to adjust himself on the floor. The tall man helped him sit up. "Why do you want to know about this case? The military locked this secret into a dark corner - never to be opened up again."
"I'm a chaplain." Jorge's eyes narrowed at the revelation - not what he expected. "People come to me and share everything." He pauses for a moment and stares at Jorge. "I was the command chaplain at Naval Air Station North Island in San Diego. The war on terror kept me constantly busy; sailors, Marines, and defense contractors were at my pew struggling with the morality of their actions in combat.
Two sailors approached me nervously after an evening mass in late February. Normally, people come to me alone to share their woes. When it's a pair, it usually involves some domestic issue. I generally don't judge, but at first I imagined these two were partners and afraid to come out to their units." The tall man shook his head wishing it would have been that simple.
"The two entered my office and were hesitant to speak. They came in civilian clothes, wore dark glasses, and ballcaps, and had sweater hoods over their caps. Each looked at one another to begin talking. I normally don't say anything, but I started and introduced myself. They soon opened up and I understood their moral quandary." The tall man adjusted himself closer to Jorge, as if he was about to speak a secret. "The men were sparse with their identification. They said they were attached to a special military unit and had recently been tasked with reconnoitering households across the southwest. In every instance, they were given exact dates, times, and locations to observe. Those who sent them knew a lot about what would happen."
Jorge was starting to sweat now; this is exactly why he left the military and decided to live in the outskirts of civilization. He knew that the darkest secrets always find light and eventually darken those who put them there. This moment was his darkening - the decisions he was a part of would lead to his unraveling.
"In every instance, these men observed bright lights consuming the households they were there to observe. The lights came from out of nowhere. They both reported that the lights would magically appear over the homes." The chaplain hesitated as he continued. Jorge could see his breath starting to quicken. "There was no source to the light. The men even showed me pictures." Jorge's jaw dropped open. He never expected the men to keep copies of their reconnaissance activities. "Large figures would emerge from the light and enter the home. They would come out with children in tow. And, just as fast as it started, they would all disappear, the figures and the children."
Jorge nodded. "Yes, I know. Why are you telling me this? We couldn't stop that - all we could do was observe."
The chaplain couldn’t believe the words coming out of Jorge. "Parents were then drugged and psychologically manipulated to not report their missing children.” Jorge nods. “Parents would go about their lives as if nothing happened. They would do this up to a point where authorities were alerted by their schools."
"Yes, and most parents would eventually end up in jail," Jorge said with lament across his face as he interrupted.
"What took them?" The tall man asked in a forceful tone.
"A version of ourselves - kind of like a future us." Jorge watched as the chaplain processed the information. The chaplain's eyes focused on Jorge like a target down range. The tall man came to his feet; the chaplain looked tall and menacing from his angle. The man reached for his waistband and removed a large knife from a sheath. Jorge's squirmed in his seat. "Wait. Don't do anything hasty!"
"Don't fuck with me!" The chaplain railed. "My child was taken." Jorge dropped his head. It all made sense now. "Two weeks ago - just as these sailors explained my life was forever changed." The man's eyes were as red as fire. "Unlike the others you mention, I did remember everything. I actually recall her alarm go off that morning and me falling back to sleep.” The chaplain pauses to clear his throat that’s cracking from sadness.
“At first, the authorities reported this as just another run-of-the-mill missing child report. That all changed when my neighbor showed me a video from his ring camera. It caught everything. The authorities didn't believe what they saw in the video, so it was ignored and kept out of material evidence." Jorge nodded. Authorities had been instructed to ignore certain evidence. He didn't say anything though - it wasn't the right time. "If not for the sailors, who shared their observations with me, I wouldn't have believed what I saw either." The chaplain raised his hand with the knife and swung it down swiftly until it hit the wooden floor next to Jorge's thigh. "Tell me - how do I find those who took my child." Jorge shook his head. The priest pulled the knife out of the floor and said in the most deviant voice, "Next is your femoral artery. I'll watch you bleed."
"Okay! Okay! Okay! I'll tell you", Jorge yells. "There’s only one way – and it’s literally a one-way process. I can help you call them, but that’ll result in you being taken. Once taken, I have no idea how to get you back."
"What!" The chaplain says. "We can summon them?"
"That's the only reason we know where they'll strike. We authorize them to take people they select." The chaplain dropped the knife to his side. He couldn't believe that his own government was involved, but why wouldn't they, they're involved in everything."
"Why?" asks the chaplain with tears in his eyes.
"I don't know. There's a bigger reason, and I was never purview to that, nor any of my colleagues - you know, compartmentalization."
"Of course," the chaplain says. "Can you summon them, or get me to my daughter?" Jorge nods. He knows that if he were to try, he could take out the chaplain. The man may be large, but he's slow and old. Jorge knows though that what was done to the chaplain is wrong. If he were in his shoes, he'd probably go further - much further. The chaplain reaches down and unshackles Jorge.
Jorge comes to his feet and massages the bruising on his wrists. "I can get you to your daughter. But I’m coming with you." The chaplain looks at Jorge, confused. Why the chaplain mouths? "The moment I summon them - the people I was associated with will know it was me. They'll come after me. Logically, this is the best course to stay alive." The chaplain nods.
Two days later, the chaplain and Jorge are in the basement of the non-denomination church on Naval Air Station North Island. Jorge is not only back on a military base but also in a large city - the two places he wanted to avoid the rest of his life.
The chaplain, Captain James McDonough, had no issues getting Jorge on base or escorting around. As a Navy Captain, he can drive onto the base with little fanfare from the guards.
Jorge sits at a laptop connected to the base SIPRENT, the classified network. The chaplain's rank requires him to have access to the secure network in case of an emergency. "I need your username and password," Jorge asks the chaplain. The chaplain points at the keyboards and asks him to turn it over. The two items are written down on a sticky note. "Seriously? This is how you protect US secrets?" The chaplain shrugs off his comments - he has enough to deal with trying to mend the world's woes from behind his pew.
Within minutes Jorge navigates the system and finds the secure folders he needs. With that information, he accesses another system. He turns to look at the chaplain. "The moment I enter this folder your account will be flagged. Naval Intelligence will know you, or at least your account, is accessing their system." The chaplain nods and asks Jorge to continue. Jorge opens the folder and quickly begins searching for Operation Sky Fire. A large directory opens up. He's surprised that everything is where he left it. The chaplain watches as Jorge runs commands on the computer. His fingers fly like an operator in the field. In minutes, Jorge is done and turns to the chaplain. "You ready?" The chaplain nods.
The two men walk to the front of the church and stand at the center of an empty parking lot. The dark sky is illuminated by the San Diego skyline, especially by the USS Abraham Lincoln aircraft carrier docked for resupply. The ship's lights against the San Diego skyline, make it fit right in as if it's just another building in downtown.
"How long do we have to wait," asks the chaplain. Jorge looks down at his watch and raises two fingers. The chaplain adjusts his belt and tightens his shoelaces as if he's about to run. Jorge puts his hands on his waist wishing he had a handgun on him, but he's happy to have a knife.
"There it is," Jorge says. A bright light overtakes the darkness showering the parking lot. "Be ready. They will grab us quickly." Two large entities suddenly appear. The chaplain and Jorge squint and try to use their hands to get a clear look at the entities. All they can see though are two featureless shadows quickly advancing on them. Jorge and the chaplain both take an unconscious step back. Jorge grabs the knife, but before he can act, they're both accosted violently. The two feel like they're being wrestled and squeezed. The chaplain feels his feet coming off the ground and tries to yell, but nothing escapes.
The two men wake. They take inventory of their bodies. Everything is there - no missing limbs or injuries. Jorge stands and pulls the chaplain to his feet. The two look around and see they're in the middle of an open plain. Tall, brown grass is up to their knees in all directions. A warm and gentle wind blows the grass creating a harmonious dance across rolling hills. The men look at each other in astonishment. They look down and see that they're still wearing the same clothes. Jorge reaches and feels that he still has the knife in his waistband.
Jorge looks up to the bright sky and quietly says to the chaplain. "There's no sun."
The chaplain runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. "How can this be?"
The chaplain can see that Jorge is thinking. "This is not real. It can't be," Jorge says lost in thought. The chaplain again grabs at his hair and tugs at it, this time to help calm his growing anxiety - no terror.
Everything instantly goes dark. Jorge reaches for the chaplain and grabs his shoulder. "Don't let go," says the chaplain. A light appears in the distance and slowly illuminates everything around them. "What's happening?"
"You are correct." A large and booming voice says all around them. "This is what your minds considered a peaceful place." Jorge nodded. This is exactly the type of place he wishes to be in constantly.
"Where is my daughter?" yells the chaplain as he looks in all directions - trying to get the attention of whatever is amongst them. "Why did you take her? Why have you been taking children?"
"We have to," the voice boomed again. "Your civilization is at war."
"What does that even mean," yells Jorge into the air. The distant light instantly takes over everything around them, and the two men find themselves standing in a large, cavernous room naked of color and any texture. What looks like walls is nothing more than blurred outlines that dissipate into nothing.
Dark shadows slowly drift in Jorge and the priest's direction. The two men step back but they butt up against a wall they can't see. Before they can react, the shadows consume them and everything is dark again.
A light appears above their heads. The light begins showing scenes of people fighting on a screen that looks like a portal directly into the combat zone. The scene descends just feet away from them. Thousands of bodies lay strewn across the screen, as hundreds of thousands of others fight machines across the land. Large autonomous machines of all sizes, color, and configuration glide across the screen killing indiscriminately. Natural structures are ripped from the ground by the machines and used to hammer the fighting bodies below. The smaller machines run towards the people like kamikaze drones on a suicidal run.
At the other end of the screen, Jorge and the chaplain watch in astonishment as groups huddle and begin chanting as they hold hands. Bright lights appear above the groups, generating a beam of energy that slams against the machines stopping them after a sustained, uninterrupted attack.
"What is this? What's happening?" yells the chaplain.
"The youth are fighting as a collective against the machines designed to take over humanity." Again, the chaplain runs his fingers through his hair, imagining his daughter - fighting the terrifying machines.
"How can I help? Get me down there!" the chaplain demands. Jorge nods in agreement – he can’t just sit on the sidelines.
"Your souls cannot endure the fight - too old. The stresses imposed by human body suck the energy out of souls by the age of fifteen. If we were to send you there to fight, you'd only be a distraction. The youth must stand and fight. They fight for their future."
"There has to be a way we can help," laments the chaplain as he sees bodies being decimated.
“How did this all start?”, asks Jorge.
The shadowy figure calmly responds. "A cohort of corrupt humans rose to the levels of divine beings in the conscious world ushering a silencing of humanity’s consciousness. These people created machines to systematically erode a soul’s individuality. Since then, conscious minds have gone numb, obedient, and subservient. That’s where we came in.” The shadowy figure stops to allow its words to sink in. “We are using the strong, uncorrupted souls to stem this onslaught.”
"What can we do?" asks Jorge.
"Nothing!” responds the shadowy figure. “You wait and see if the unconscious minds prevail.”
"Bullshit," yells Jorge and grabs the chaplain by the arm. The two run towards the screen, jump into it, and fall into the theater of fighting.
The two instantly find themselves amongst thousands of dead souls, the broken and smoldering machines, and the noise of war.
The shadowy being watches as Jorge and the chaplain waddle in death and destruction. "Good luck,” the shadow figure says and disappears.
"Where the hell do we go," yells the chaplain.
"Fuck if I know," responds Jorge. The chaplain points to a hill a few hundred yards away. The two run over death and destruction until they reach a group of people huddled together. A buzzing energy consumes their bodies.
A familiar voice emerges above the fray. "Dad! Dad!". The chaplain cannot believe what he's seeing - his daughter at the center of the swaying group.
"Andrea!" The man yells as he cuts through the crowd with Jorge in tow. The two embrace tightly.
"Let's get out of here," the chaplain yells as he pulls on Andrea's arm.
"No," she pulls back. "I can't leave. This is my calling. I have to stay. There's not many of us left." The chaplain can't say how much of an understatement that is, as his eyes gravitate to the dead all around him.
"I can't let you do this. I can't lose you too. I've already lost too much." The chaplain breaks his composure and begins sobbing.
Jorge grabs the chaplain by the arm and yells over the noise. "We need to go now. The screen is starting to disappear. Logic tells me that if we don't get through the threshold now - we never will."
Andrea hugs his father and hastily releases him and pushes him towards Jorge. "Go now or you'll die here." The chaplain shakes his head but doesn't resist Jorge as he pulls him towards the closing threshold.
Jorge and Chaplain McDonough wake in the parking lot of the church. The two stare at each other in both astonishment and confusion. Sirens blare and lights from military police vehicles surround the church. The two quietly crawl in between parked cars and make their way to the main street where they sneak into the back of a truck that's covered with a tarp. The two wait hours in the truck bed, before the car leaves base and eventually comes to a stop.
The two wait a few minutes after the driver leaves the car and sneak out. The two are surprised to be in the center of downtown San Diego. The two enter an Irish Pub and head to the back of the bar. The two order two pints of Guinness.
“Can you get us back?” The chaplain asks as he takes a deep sip of his pint.
“Yea”. I can do it. Jorge takes his long haul on the pint. “Can you select children to be taken?”
The man takes a deep breath. “I won’t have them abducted. I can though, with your help, show parents the truth. They can decide to have their children fight!”
Jorge raises his pint and so does the chaplain. “Let’s create an army!” Says the chaplain.
Jorge nods and feels an energy running through him that he hasn’t felt since his early days in the military. The chaplain also feels a spiritual rejuvenation. The two finish their pints and ready themselves to supply the war machine.
The end - of the beginning!
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