Rumble in the Box

Rumble in the Box

  By Sumayyah Talibah

  Copyright 2012

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  I delivered one final, disgusted shake to my crappy, outdated e-reader before giving up and tossing it onto the empty passenger seat next to me. I had downloaded the same book four times in a row and kept getting a “file not found” error message on the seven inch screen. Thankfully, the customized satellite radio application still functioned properly on my phone - also crappy and outdated - so I wasn’t too bored or annoyed when the vehicle I was waiting for finally sailed into the falsely named “coin” laundry parking lot.

  I leaned forward, tapping my fingers impatiently on the faux-fur covered steering wheel of my truck and watched my target closely as she disembarked from her bright, red, oversized SUV. She was, as the data chip stated, an attractive woman in her early forties. Her cocoa-colored skin had a healthy shine to it, and she was dressed in a flowing, colorful skirt. I could hear her sandals slap the warm asphalt as she jumped down. I licked my lips as I activated the camera function on my phone and zoomed in. Quickly, I snapped a series of shots that showed her head toward the glass door of the establishment carrying not a purse, or even her keys, but only a large book emblazoned with “The Word” in her hands.

  “Got it!” I cheered to myself. This woman, one Terra Holter, was suspected of being one of the ringleaders of a recently formed, very dangerous group named “WordSpeakers.”

  The WordSpeakers, from what little information we’d gathered, mixed the state-approved religions - all one hundred and forty-seven of them - with banned teachings, and sprinkled a little Two-Headed God and Forked Serpent on top for a dark, creepy flavor. The rapidly growing group was known for their passive-aggressive conversion tactics. They never accosted people directly; they preferred to preach their religious beliefs within earshot of people once they were trapped and angered. My mission as a one of the grunts in CultBusters - CeeBee’s, we called ourselves - was to pretend to fall into her web and get proof of how deep her involvement went.

  As she disappeared into the building and reappeared with a cart on wheels, I pressed my earbuds in and climbed out of my vehicle, dragging with me a weeks' worth of laundry. Only about half of it was mine; the rest composed of various pieces I'd collected from around the office in preparation for today. Keeping one eye on Ms. Holter, I took my time going in, pretending to search my pockets for the debit card I would need to purchase wash and dry time. When she loaded her last bag of laundry into the metal cart, I slung the mesh bag of clothing over my shoulder and followed her inside at a safe distance.

  I chose a washer at the end of her row, far enough away that she wouldn’t notice me watching, but close enough to see keep up with any tricks she might pull. I tapped the red “record” button on my phone, opened the machine, and dumped the dirty articles inside. I dug the card out of one of my many pockets, slid it through the reader, and selected the proper cycle. I stared with intense concentration as the soap squirted into the bowl and the washer filled with water. At her machine - machines, rather, since she used four of them - Ms. Holter painstakingly separated her items by color. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes; I guess some people are just that picky. I tossed my empty bag on top of the closed washer, picked a gray, angled cart, and parked it right in front of the machine I’d claimed so I wouldn’t have to look for one to place my wet clothes in when the cycle finished.

  I chose a hard, cracked, yellow plastic chair directly across from her machines to wait in. Purposefully chose, because it meant that I would have to squeeze past her to get to a dryer. I could be devious when I needed to be. If I nailed this assignment, I was up for a promotion at work. I would still be a grunt, but I’d be a grunt leader, though that prospect didn’t excite me as much as it originally had. In any case, I double-checked to see if my wanna-be-a-Blackberry phone was recording properly, and mentally threw the ball into my target’s court.

  She didn’t disappoint me; Ms. Holter shut her machines after paying and selecting cycles, and immediately pulled out a phone. Pulled it out from where, I don’t know, and I was staring quite intently in her direction. I did notice, however, that she did everything one-handed; not once did she relinquish her hold on The Word.

  “How interesting,” I muttered to my phone. I nodded my head to an imaginary beat, attempting to disguise my note-taking as singing. “Target is in possession of The Word, has now produced a device that appears to be have voice communication capabilities. Target appears to be making a phone call.” From my perch, I could only make out every fourth word or so, but from the sound of things, she was having some sort of conference call. I whispered these findings into my recorder as I strained harder to decipher her side of the conversation. It got harder to do after a while; Ms. Holter began to pace the length of the row of washing machines as if she was agitated. I tried to look busy every time she neared me. I’m not sure if I succeeded; I caught her glaring in my direction a few times. I forced myself not to sneer in response.

  I wasn’t the classiest CeeBee; I preferred multi-pocketed pants, long-sleeve, ripped t-shirts, beat up sneakers and head wraps instead of the two- and three-piece suits my co-workers swore by. I held the current record for most tattoos (twelve) and piercings (thirteen if you counted each hole in my ears individually), and I was the most poverty-stricken of them all. I was uniquely suited to be a CeeBee, though; I grew up in a very strict, very secretive religious household, and still had the scars to prove it. My parents, who were happily sacrificed as tributes when I was sixteen, were worshipers of the Two-Headed God. I still had nightmares about His horns and hooves, and sometimes even found myself absentmindedly running my fingers across His mark.

  I shuddered at my tortured memories and almost miss the buzz that signals the beginning of the end of wash cycle. I stood and stretched as nonchalantly as I can. Smoothly, I sauntered to my machine and reached for my cart. Except it wasn't there. Shocked, I darted my eyes around the laundry place, even looking in impossible places like between the machines. As quickly as my search began, it ended; I spotted my cart rolling away down the aisle, being pushed by none other than the Holter woman.

  “That witch stole my cart!” I hissed into the microphone. “If she starts speaking Serpentine, I’m shootin’ her. You don’t steal a sista’s laundry cart!” I caught myself rambling and making threats, and shut up. Mentally, I reviewed how to edit recordings, and then moved to the cart park area, where there was one lone, wobbly cart left. Grimacing, I snagged it, and it squeaked all the way back to the washer.

  I unloaded the machine carefully, hoping that the cart, lopsided as it was, wouldn’t collapse under the weight of the wet items. Still muttering, I wobbled and squeaked my way down to dryers, where I encountered another obstacle: the walkway was blocked. By blocked, I mean that there was a cart positioned, quite deliberately, between the row of washers and the row of dryers. And by deliberately, I mean that Ms. Holter stood right behind it, staring at me as I tried to find a way to bypass it.

  A growl rose in my throat as I twisted this way and that before giving up. I backed out, turned sideways, and walked the long way around to get to the dryers. “Target is currently displaying mannerisms of the extinct canine species, female. I deserve a medal for putting up with this,” I mumbled.

  I selected two in-the-wall dryers so the clothes would dry faster, and started shoving my items in. I kept tabs on all the occupants in the building by way of their reflections in the glass. I drew my eyebrows together in a frown when I counted a slightly alarming number of pasty, ill-appearing people; they were hovering over baskets that contained no more than five small pieces of clothing. Immediately suspicious, I made a note to take a closer look at them. I sna
pped the dryer doors shut and swiped my card, opting for the more expensive “spring breeze” cycle. Sudden movement next to me jarred me; I smacked my hand on the wall and bumped my knee into the cart, sending it skittering and groaning away. Turning my head, I felt my hopes rise and my stomach plummet.

  Terra Holter was standing at the machine next to mine, leaning against the cart, and frowning in concentration. I narrowed my eyes and held my breath, knowing the moment I’d been waiting for was coming. I wasn’t disappointed. One of the pasty people came up on my left side, just as Ms. Holter begin to preach and pray into the phone.

  “And I say praise The Gracious One, praise The Enlightened One, praise The One Who Leads Us Into Battle And Death!” she shouted. “Offer alms and blessings to Her and Him and Them, for They are One and we are none! Hail The Speaker, The Writer Of The Word that has been given unto us. For we are weak and insignificant creatures that crawl on our bellies and breed in filth.” She shuddered; her entire body shook with effort, and beads of sweat formed on her brow. Dimly, I remembered that I was supposed to edge away and text in a report, but I found that I couldn’t move. I was horrified and fascinated, but I managed to twitch my fingers closer to my shock-and-awe gun, which was capable of dropping a two-ton grizzly hybrid where it stood.

  I stared, glassy-eyed, as she worked herself into a frenzy. Her words begin to slur and sound less “intelligent life-form” and more “evolutionary reject”. My heart thudded in my chest, and I felt His mark itch and stretch. I needed to excuse myself, but my feet were rooted to the spot. I hadn’t felt this terrified and exhilarated since the night I watched my parents go into the ether of their own free will.

  “Join ussss,” Ms. Holter hissed.

  “Ussss,” the crowd hissed in agreement.

  “Accept the truth that He Speaks!”

  I threw my head back and howled. The hissing and chanting of the crowd died instantly as they backed away from me, wide-eyed and fearful. I wiggled my arm out of my shirt, letting them see His mark upon my shoulder. Hands twitching, I raised them to my head, and used my index fingers to approximate a pair of horns.

  “I am dedicated to the The Two-Headed One,” I spat at the people. “I hear only the words from both His mouths. He Who Laughs and Cries, He Who Creates and Destroys! Hear me!” Shaking, I spoke the words I swore never to speak again. My tongue felt swollen and hot, and my bowels clenched and wiggled, threatening to loosen.

  Ms. Holter narrowed her eyes. “Truly?” she asked as she abandoned protocol to speak to me.

  I nodded gravely. “In the name of He, I say, it is done!”

  She bowed her head in defeat. “Praise and blessings,” she offered in apology. She snapped her phone closed; that was the apparent signal to disperse, as her minions drifted away, gathering up their belongings. Drained, I forced my arm back into its sleeve and leaned forward, pressing my forehead to the coolness of the wall. My phone dangled from the earbud cord, twirling and bouncing against my knee. Fumbling, I grabbed it, and pressed the “stop” button. I slid my fingers against the screen, opening the “options” menu. My thumb hovered over the “delete audio clip?” command. I remained that way, in that position, until the dryers buzzed, informing me that my cycles were complete.

  I shoved my now-clean garments into the bag and slung it over my shoulder. I glanced around the empty laundry facility, wondering if anyone would ever know about the brief battle that took place here. With a sigh, I exited through the glass doors and walked to my car.

  I froze in front of my vehicle, eye twitching and stomach clenching. Trapped under my windshield wiper was a paper booklet. My hand shook slightly as I freed it and looked it over. Written underneath the black, bold letters proclaiming “Let The Speaker Speak The News” was a scribbled, handwritten message. “Your win,” the note said, and there was a series of digits beneath it, most likely a phone number.

  I scrunched the booklet, meaning to toss it, but found myself placing it in my pocket, just in case. Once more, I looked at my phone. The glowing red “delete audio clip?” was still present on the screen. I put my thumb over it, closed my eyes, and pressed down.