The morning whistle’s shrill shriek sounded throughout the prison warning of the coming of a new day. Listless men stirred in their cells, rising with the dawn. Institutionalized souls whose free will long ago succumbed to rigidity, they went through the motions of getting dressed, preparing their cells for inspection, and finally stepping out for roll call. Thought was never required for this, their very actions as instinctive as breathing; a regimented routine. And when the guards were through inspecting them, these empty numbers to be counted, the cons were marched to chow.

The cafeteria was cavernous, a large rectangular room with guards watching from either end stationed behind Plexiglas; rifles at the ready with twitchy fingers at the triggers. Each con grabbed a tray and passed down the line taking what was offered without question. Few cared what went on their plate. It all tasted the same. As one inmate said, ‘It comes out as shit, why shouldn’t it go in as shit?’

With tray in hand, Siyyid made his way through the crowded mess hall, grimly eyeing the Nubians as he crossed into the protective territory of the Aryans, finally choosing a table at their heart. Those seated looked up at this effeminate yet severe man with expectation as he joined them for breakfast.

“My fellow disciples,” Siyyid told those gathered, “He has come.”

“Truly?” one of those seated asked.

“Yes. I have received word from Luke.”

“Then the time approaches?”

“Indeed.” Siyyid observed his brethren, subtly nodding his head. “In time, revelations shall be made known to him and he shall spread the word. Our master’s will shall be made manifest to the world. For now, we follow the plan. May the gate be opened.”

“May the gate be opened,” the disciples said in solemn unison.

***

Beneath the flickering light, Herbert morosely observed Luke in his cell; puffy eyes fluttering and head bobbing as he struggled to stay awake. Drained, muscles aching, Herbert’s hands trembled terribly in his lap. The worst part was not the chill that clung to him but a growing unease gradually overtaking him. He swore he was being watched. The shadows were gaining substance. Herbert shook his head. The sleepless nights were surely eating away at him.

“Shall Life in our sight her sons devour, and give them back alive the self-same hour?” Luke murmured absently, examining a file.

Herbert’s ears perked up, his exhaustion partially dissipating. "Pardon me?"

"A quote," Luke replied without looking up. "A truth."

"And what truth is that?"

Luke’s bowed head rose. "That Life is cannibalistic. It feeds on itself to propagate. That hunger is within each of us, to destroy to create. It is what turns us into monsters, drives us to do profane things.” Luke’s lip curled. “Better to deaden such abominable Chthonic drives even if it means the end of us, yet how we gladly suckle at our mother’s diseased tit."

“Oedipal issues?”

“Do not speak of my mother as if she were just meat! She was a saint," Luke growled. “A tormented saint, but is there any other kind? So many sacrifices and for what? To die unfulfilled.”

“And how do you know she was unfulfilled?”

“She never smiled. She never smiled,” Luke echoed hollowly. “She had eyes of lapis lazuli, the color of the evening sky. Entrancing. I remember those most about her. They sparkled with life. Why did I not get those eyes?”

Herbert struggled to stifle a yawn. “You hate your eyes?” he finally managed.

“I have my father’s eyes," Luke stated, putting the file aside. "Every time I look in the mirror it is like he is staring back at me, staring back at me through a mask of my mother’s face. I look so much like her. But my eyes…betray me. Those cursed hazel eyes.

“She loved me, despite it all. Her burdens and mine. Always there to listen and hold. Telling me I was special. And her kisses." Luke faintly smiled. "She was so gentle and fragile and lonely. Those times with her…She wanted to be touched and loved, but she hid inside herself. She was afraid to be loved. To be made whole. Blaming herself for every loss she incurred, for every failure beyond her control. I gave her my heart. I wanted her to be happy for all she had done for me. For her own blind love. Many nights I would hold her close, caress her, do my best to let her know she was not alone; two souls clinging desperately together in the darkness. Her life was nothing but anguish and suffering. I only wished her to smile.

“Those were good times, just her and I. Then father would inevitably return and interpose himself, shunning me from her bed." Luke shuddered, then stood and started fiercely pacing his cell. In the dark he seemed to glide. “What right did he have to her? He did not love her. Not as I loved her.”

Herbert leaned forward, his right hand brushing back a loose strand of gray hair. “And what did your father feel for you?”

“My father loathed me for what I was. I was a dreamer, like the Soviets who had raped his homeland. Ironic since he himself was the product of rape, that coarse joining of East and West that followed the tragic fall of the Reich. And neither mother nor father wanted anything to do with him. Orphaned by sin, borne of vengeance and lust.

“Dreams destroy souls, he would say. They are a purgatory of our own make and have no place in the waking world. Mankind’s seeking of perfection is a path lit by twilight. He would yell at me for not seeing the world for what it was, instead seeing only what I wanted to see. Numbers are not facts he would tell me. You can make numbers do anything. Hide truths in them. To him, I wasted my time in my own personal Wolkenkuckucksheim. I had to come down to Earth. Be a man. If I didn’t have anything to show for my actions, then my actions were worthless. My words were worthless. A man should be defined by what he has done, not by his intentions. Not by his thoughts and theories. Cowards think. Men do. Men live. They do not hide in books squandering their talents. By the force of their will they change the world!

"My entire childhood I was inculcated with the ideal that there was to be no idleness, only duty. Man lives to serve. The individual does not matter. It is the sum of us, that collective, which matters. Civilization and culture must survive. The macro over the micro. The blood demands it.

"But how was I to explain this natural separation I have always felt? Men are mysteries and I have never felt a connection to the world let alone a duty to serve it. For that, I was a mockery in his eyes. A cancer in the bosom of humanity."

“Tell me more.”

Luke slid up to the bars. “About my father?”

“Yes.”

"Why? What do you know about him?"

Herbert shrugged laconically. "What’s public knowledge. One of the greater success stories in modern politics. He escaped from East Germany while still a boy. Came to America with nothing and rose to prominence in several administrations. He’s a renowned political figure, a storied diplomat, and highly respected by his peers. A great man."

"He should have been castrated." Luke’s teeth clicked together menacingly. "Let me tell you about that ’great’ man. He was nothing more than a puffed up diplomat. A deceiver, a hypocrite, a drunkard, and a bastard without conscience. He cared not for the ethical or the ideal, only that which could further his single-minded, petty goal; Vengeance, on those who destroyed his precious Vaterland, or rather, his perception of it. He was a divider determined to isolate and exterminate every communist he could find. Look at his work in Africa. In Asia. The steady spread of oppression he fostered to counter Soviet power, defending dictators and atrocities as long as lip service was paid to the evils of Bolshevism. Is the world the better for it? Listen to the cries of those peoples before you liken him to anything worthy of respect.

“And in his eyes I was a failure. Me, who saw beyond simple titles and creeds, who saw the core of what we are. Despite this, it was his basic opinion and intention that, like himself, I would and must become a public servant. I must be his second coming.

“But I understood why he thought this way. It was only natural that the hardships of his youth should enhance his subsequent achievements in his eyes, particularly since it resulted exclusively from his own energy and iron diligence. It was his pride of the self-made man which made him want me to rise to the same position in life, or of course, even higher if possible, especially since, by his own industrious life, he thought he would be able to facilitate my development so greatly. His legacy in the flesh. I was to carry on his crusade against a shadowy father.

"It was simply inconceivable to him that I might reject what had become the content of his whole life. Find my own path. Consequently, my father’s decision was simple, definite, and clear; in his own eyes I mean, of course. Finally, a whole lifetime spent in the bitter struggle for existence had given him a domineering nature, and it would have seemed intolerable to him to leave the final decision in such matters to an inexperienced boy, having as yet no sense of responsibility. Moreover, this would have seemed a sinful and reprehensible weakness in the exercise of his proper Prussian parental authority and responsibility for the future life of his child, and as such, absolutely incompatible with his concept of duty.

"And yet things were to turn out differently. Then barely eleven years old, was I forced into opposition for the first time in my life. I had the chance to follow my dreams, to go to university. To escape him. Hard and determined as my father might be in putting through plans and purposes conceived to impress his will upon me, I was just as persistent and recalcitrant in rejecting an idea which appealed to me not at all. I did not want to become a public servant."

"So you fought."

“Constantly. He was very controlling. Very physical. Commanding. He was this towering presence I held in terrified awe. You did not speak in his hallowed presence. You listened.” Luke turned away. “His words were rare. He was so quiet. Brooding. He would sit there in his tenebrous den, surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke, this sacred, living mountain. That was the scary part about him, wondering what was going on behind those eyes. He was as random as an earthquake. And when he spoke, with that thick goatish accent, I quavered."

“Did you hate him?”

Luke hesitated, turning back to grasp the bars and rest his head against the icy iron. “It is hard to hate one’s father, perhaps because we are made in his image. He is a part of me as I am a part of him.” Deom sighed raggedly. "I failed my father." The statement could have come from Herbert’s own mouth, but he swallowed whatever solace he could offer to this repugnantly kindred spirit.

“He had a path thought out for you,” Herbert reluctantly offered, “but you wandered. That was your right. So you upset his plans.”

“So I did. There was a time when I wanted to make him proud. Despite myself, I still yearn to. But trying to please him…All the sacrifices I made. I couldn’t be what he needed me to be. I was…incomplete.” Luke relaxed his grip on the bars and partly retreated into the darkness of his cell becoming nothing more than a vague outline.

Herbert watched Luke with a small measure of pity. "Do you think he loved you?"

"In his own way. I was meant for great things. Unlike his other son, I survived. Something I think he hated most. Those lost opportunities. That this mockery of him should live." Luke balled his hands into fists, the knuckles cracking. "But Fate has something in store for me."

"So you think Edmund’s death had something to do with your father’s intense interest in your life?"

“Edmund.” There was tenderness in Deom’s voice as he said the name. “Little Edmund. So perfect. So loved. When he died…” Luke wiped at his eyes. "He didn’t even bother to see him off."

"Who?"

"My father. He was too busy the day of the funeral, too busy to console me. The country, the world came before his own sons. Duty." Luke snorted bitterly. "Why fight to change the world if you care nothing for your own blood who shall inherit it? The future meant nothing. Only the past. Edmund meant nothing. I…meant nothing. I remember that day. It snowed. It snowed so hard. The world was blanketed with an icy shroud. Watching them lower my brother into the earth. I was the only one to see him off. I was five. Too young to understand death."

"That was when the self-mutilation started."

Luke’s eyes narrowed. He took a step forward into the dim light. "I never hurt myself."

"Dr. Lennartz would disagree."

"What do you know of Lennartz?" Luke queried in a threatening tone.

"I know of your self-mutilation. Of possible abuse in your home."

"I never harmed myself. It was them," Luke stated, pointing at the shadows.

"Them?"

"They came with Edmund. Came because of my prayers. They came bearing knowledge of Nagbu."

"You used that word once before. What is this Nagbu?"

"Unknown mysteries. The knowledge of the abyss. When I would not listen they hurt me. Made me understand. Understand what had to be."

"They dominated you."

Luke’s face flared crimson and he lunged at Herbert who fell back in surprise, only the bars keeping Deom at bay. "They do not dominate me!" Luke shrieked, clutching desperately for Herbert. "I dominate them! Do you hear? I dominate them!"

***

Officer Marcus weathered the third level of D-Block, leaning forward on the steel railing, watching the cons suffer through their shitty little lives consciously oblivious to their petty battles which achieved nothing. They ignored him for the most part, though several souls said hi in passing, another patting him on the back for helping him with a personal matter. Over the booming din of the block, Marcus’ radio squelched for attention, but he didn’t bother to answer. "Get me the fuck outta here," he said to no one.

Marcus descended to ground level, signaling to the guard behind the glass to open the gate. After a buzz, the bars retracted and he passed through into the hall.

Marcus missed the dull certainty of third shift, but after that night with Deom there was no way he was working graveyard again unless he was ordered to. Quiet nights just didn’t feel safe anymore. Something lingered in the dark. Something he didn’t want to suffer again.

Up ahead, Marcus found Freddy and another inmate completing a cleaning detail. The pair slapped their mops down and kept swabbing despite his approach, slathering the concrete floor with murky water.

Marcus inspected the wet floor. “Good work, Freddy. I can almost see myself.”

"Almost?" Freddy acted taken aback. "Man, when I’m through you’ll look down and think you have a twin brother."

“No thanks to you,” his partner complained.

“Hey, I’m the supervisor,” Freddy loudly proclaimed. “Gotta make sure you do it right.”

"I knew you had a lot of experience at something," his partner deadpanned. "Speak so much shit you’d have to know how to clean it up."

“You focus on the job, bitch. Been mopping that same section of floor for the past half hour. It ain’t pussy, boy. It don’t like to be stroked. So," Freddy returned his attention to Marcus, "How the wife and kids, Officer Marcus?”

“As always, don’t have any.”

“See that’s your problem. You spend too much time in here with us. Not that that’s a bad thing, cause I’m such a likable person.” Freddy covered his heart. “But you need to get out. Find yourself some action.” The con gyrated his hips, gripping his mop between his legs, a toothy grin on his face.

“Keep it in your pants,” Freddy’s partner cut in. “I don’t need another mess to clean up.”

“Asshole,” Freddy muttered.

“See ya around, guys.” Marcus left the bickering pair and made his way through the labyrinthine corridors to the prison’s Control Room. Entering, he gave a cursory half-hearted wave to those inside on the way over to the sign-out sheet.

As always, Jesse was planted in front of the monitors, his face awash in the dull glow of the screens. It was common knowledge the guy got a perverted thrill spying on the inmates. He was notorious for reporting incidents late, letting fights and rapes go on for his amusement, only calling staff when things became too violent or too boring. There was a rumor he was copying surveillance tapes and taking them home. No one had caught him doing that…yet. It wouldn’t surprise Marcus if it were true.

At the back of the room, Harris was pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Where you going?” he asked as Marcus picked up the clipboard.

“Home most likely.” Marcus pulled out his pen and clicked it to sign out.

“Can’t.”

Marcus looked up at Harris, then over at Jesse who spun around in his chair. “Why not?”

“Another guy quit today. Couldn’t hack it, the faggot. So we need someone to fill his slot.” Jesse pointed at Marcus. “You got the lucky break.”

“No way. I’ve already pulled double the past three days. I need to get out of here. Why not Gene-”

“He’s already on shift,” Jesse replied with a smirk. Marcus tossed the board down. “What you so pissed about? Good money.”

“More to life than money.” Marcus went to pour himself a cup of coffee. He’d need the caffeine to go another eight hours. Harris moved aside to let him in.

“Oh, Marcus is just playing.” Harris took a sip of java. “He loves to spend time with his friends.”

“What are you babbling about?” Marcus asked over his shoulder while pouring.

“You spend more time with them than us.”

“Who? The inmates?”

“Yeah. You got family down there with the monkeys? I mean you niggers call each other brother-”

Marcus got up in Harris’ face. “I think you need to check yourself.”

Harris smiled baring those oversized, stained teeth of his. “Oh, come on Marcus. I’m just playin’ with ya.” He chuckled and took another sip. Marcus grudgingly backed off and grabbed his cup.

“Why do you bother with those worthless fucks?” Jesse asked Marcus.

“Good conversation.”

“Yeah, he wants to hear how to properly satisfy a cell mate,” Harris explained with a sidelong expression, pursing his lips.

“If you want me to set you up on a date, I’m sure I can find some takers,” Marcus venomously bit back. “Though you’ll have to be the girl. Goes with being a tight ass I guess.” Harris steamed as Jesse hooted.

“I ain’t some fuckin’ faggot,” Harris growled.

“Oh come on. I’m just joking.” Marcus sneered before raising his cup to his peers. “I guess I have to return to it. Enjoy the coffee.” With that, he exited back into the hall.

“Fucking spook,” Harris grumbled. “Belongs in there with the rest of ‘em.”

“Give it a rest.”

“He wants to make pets of the animals. Someone needs to let him know that these dogs bite the hands that feed ‘em. Rabid fucks.”

“And you wonder why you aren’t popular in the blocks.

“If I wanted to be popular, I wouldn’t be here,” Harris snarled, pulling his nightstick from his belt. “I’m here to crack heads and break legs.” He swung at imaginary foes with grim enthusiasm.

“Someone’s compensating for a two-bit prick,” Jesse tossed off, wiggling his pinky.

Harris froze, his blank expression causing Jesse to crack up. “Fuck you,” Harris retorted, making for the door.

“Don’t worry, Harris,” Jesse called after him. "Half of China knows what you’re going through.”

Seething, Harris stalked down the hall, grinding his heels with each step. He repeatedly flexed his muscles causing the stick in his hand to twitch. Marcus’ words and Jesse’s laughter reverberated through his mind. "Should’ve busted ’em in their damn heads," he told himself. "Crack their fucking heads wide open!" he yelled, smacking the wall with his club.

Arriving at solitary, Harris dismissed the guard on duty. Without hesitation, he seized the keys from the desk and entered the block. Solitary consisted of a corridor with heavy steel doors arranged in parallel down the walls. Each had a window for observation and a slit for food. He strutted down the line, stopping midway. Harris peeked through the slat at the soul sealed inside. It was dark in there. He could just make out the shitter lounging on the cot in the corner, sleeping like a babe.

Harris made sure no one was coming before jabbing a key into the lock and twisting. The heavy steel door moaned as he pulled it open.

The inmate woke to see a shadow standing there in the doorway. When he went to speak, the shadow stomped in making him choke on his words. The con’s shrill screams resonated through the place, intensifying with each stroke of that club in Harris’ hand. Harris had to put something down.

***

Herbert sat alone in a booth at the diner, brooding over the dregs of his cold cup of coffee. He’d spoken to his lawyer. The divorce was final. His wife had taken everything but the debt. What was left the bank had seized. Creditors had frozen his assets. An audit was coming. Herbert sighed bitterly. There was nothing left. He had nothing left. What was he to do now? Work? He couldn’t work like this.

The stench of charred flesh brought him back to reality. He fought against the will to wretch, glancing over at the truckers gathered at the counter like hogs at the trough. In a rapacious frenzy they shoved greasy gobs of burnt meat between their smacking lips. Others ravenously gnawed on bones, gooey sauces drooling down their coarse jowls. The very sight of them made his throat swell up, the taste of bile souring his tongue. He heaved at the gulping and slurping of the diners, his stomach knotting up.

Knives and forks scraped across plates, cups noisily clattered on the tabletops. The sizzling of the grill caused his skin to tingle, hot flashes surging over him like baptismal fire. Was that squealing coming from the rear of the diner, past the acrid smoke pouring from the kitchen? The color drained from his face at the thought of what butchery was taking place back there.

Queasily he rose, tossing some money on the table before staggering from the charnel house. Stumbling out into the night, he crossed the street back to the motel making for his room.

Slamming the door behind him, he collapsed on the bed hoping for the release of sleep. He’d call Geoff tomorrow. See what his options were.

Lying there in the dark, dreams teasing at the shallow fringe of nothingness, the muffled voices of the people next door woke him from his fragile slumber. The voices were soon shouting at one another. Unable to bear it after so many sleepless nights, Herbert got up. "Some of us are trying to sleep!" he snapped. The voices just kept shouting and arguing. "Shut up!" he demanded, kicking the wall. The voices ignored him.

Frustrated, Herbert jerked his door open and went next door. The windows to the room were dark and the curtains drawn, but he could hear them in there yelling at one another. He hammered on the door only for someone to strike back from the other side in reply.

"Open the door," Herbert ordered. When no one answered, he shouted, "Open the fucking door!" Muted snickering mocked him.

"God damnit," Herbert mumbled, heading for the manager’s office. Once inside, he repeatedly struck the bell on the counter until the disheveled manager appeared.

"What the hell’s gotten into you?"

"Those people next door to me are keeping me awake."

The manager looked puzzled. "What people? You’re the only one here in the motel."

"Don’t bull shit me," Herbert threatened, seizing the manager by his stained t-shirt and nearly yanking him over the counter. "There are two people in the room next to mine shouting at one another keeping me awake. Now either you come with me and deal with this or I am going to get out my tire iron, bust down that door, and settle this myself."

The manager put his hands up defensively. "Geeze mister, relax. I’ll come with ya. Just let me get the keys. Ok?"

Herbert loosened his grip allowing the manager to swipe the room key from the wall.

The two of them headed back towards Herbert’s room. Standing in front of the adjacent door, the manager listened. "I ain’t hearing no one inside."

"Just open it."

"Alright." The manager unlocked the door. Inside, there was no sign of anyone having been there. The bed was made, the lights out. Nothing appeared disturbed. Even the air smelled stale.

"Can’t be," Herbert said in shock. "I heard two people in here. I’ve heard two people in here for the past few nights."

"I’m telling ya mister, ain’t no one been in here since you checked in. If you’ll excuse me." The manager ushered Herbert out of the room, locking it behind them before leaving.

Herbert shook his head. He’d heard them. He knew he’d heard them. Returning to his room, he sat on his bed struggling against mental collapse. What was happening to him?

The voices soon returned, their conversation now more convivial.

"No," Herbert told himself, trying to block them out. "No, they’re not there. They are not there."

The voices cackled at his false doubt. His patience strained, Herbert got up and smacked the wall several times. "Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up!" he shouted at them.

Something banged the wall from the other side. The banging spread to the far wall, to the ceiling, from under the floor. Herbert’s knees shook then buckled as he clutched at his head. Shouting, crying, and wailing came from within the walls all around him. The walls were pounding, throbbing like his head. The wallpaper sloughed off revealing yellowed plaster underneath which soon cracked. To his horror the walls were splitting and unreality threatened to spill through. Everything was coming undone. Madness loomed. The shadows rose and washed over him and then there was only blackness.

Next Chapter: The Universal Fluid