Mariners Miracle

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Mariner’s Miracle
 

Chapter 1

Following the Trail
 

In the end, it amounts to family, friends, and faith. When the family and friends disappear? It gets down to a purpose in life or a struggle for survival. John St. John had seen many of life’s opportunities slip through his hands: good women, good friends, good jobs, and good times. It was late September when he was arrested. John walked out of a casino in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, having spent $200 of his $450 unemployment check on an entry fee to a poker tournament he didn’t win. Frustrated and out hustled, he turned his attention to the blackjack table. He lost another $150 in blackjack, and the rest went to whiskey, cigarettes, and gas. Before he walked out of the casino, he cursed at several of the employees who he was convinced were cheating. He eventually spit on the floor in front of security. Security escorted him to the door, followed him on camera through the parking lot, and contacted the police.
 

No sooner than John put the keys in the truck than the cops swooped in on him. With the fourth drunk driving arrest in four years, the judge charged him with a felony and put him in jail for 90 days. It was the final straw. He lost his qualification for unemployment due to the incarceration. This caused him to be evicted from his apartment, and his few belongings were put to the curb. The bank had cut Mr. St. John his last break in August when he skipped another payment. John’s beloved truck was repossessed from the impound yard while he was behind bars. John was released at 8 a.m. from the DuPage County Jail with $24 to his name and a dead mobile phone with no charger. It was the week before Christmas, and he had nowhere to go and no one to call for help. He was now homeless and without a coat.
 

It was a balmy 39 degrees and overcast. John made his way to the train station. He paid two dollars for a train ticket and another two dollars for a bus ticket. He rode the train downtown and then jumped on a bus. The bus was warm, and John decided to sit on the warm bus and try to figure out a game plan. He looked out the window, and it looked like it could rain or snow at any time. He was armed with a stained Nike golf shirt, jeans, and sneakers against the elements. He knew he would freeze to death by midnight on a park bench or under a bridge. He noticed the public library on State St. was one of the stops on the bus route. John exited the bus at the stop and was quickly greeted by a gust of wind that sent a shiver down his spine. He walked quickly across the street to the massive concrete structure that was the Harold Washington Library Center.
 

John entered and walked past a security guard at the door who followed him with his eyes. The library was warm and inviting. John found an open computer and logged on to the internet. He needed a place to sleep, something to eat, and a coat to keep warm. He scribbled down the addresses of all the homeless shelters in the downtown area on a piece of paper and then headed to the front desk.
“Excuse me, Miss. Can you tell me where the lost and found is? I left my coat in here the other day.” John lied to the attractive college-aged woman behind the counter.
“I am sorry to hear that. The lost and found is in the maintenance office on the south end of the building.” She replied. She was beautiful, and there was no ring on her finger, John noticed. He nodded his head and proceeded towards the maintenance office on the other end of the building.
 

John approached a fat black guy in a maintenance uniform with a large set of keys connected to his belt standing out in front of a glassed-in office. “I am looking for the lost and found.” John said to the black guy. The black maintenance man slowly looked him up and down and then gestured with his thumb over his shoulder to the office behind him without saying a word. John walked around the man and into the office behind the glass.
“I left my coat in here the other day. Is this the lost and found?” John asked an elderly woman who appeared to be a volunteer sitting behind the counter.
“Yes, it is. What does your coat look like?” she replied.
“It is a dark coat. I can’t remember who makes it, but it is size large and it is not leather.”
“I see. Let me take a look. There are several in there.” The woman pushed her chair back and went behind a closed door to emerge a minute later with a couple of black coats. “These are both size large. Is one of them yours?” After a quick examination, John reached for the one that had a hood. “That one looks like mine.” The volunteer gladly handed him the coat.
 

John put the coat on and headed out into the streets. He began walking east towards the shelters closer to Lake Michigan. The gravity of his situation was now sobering. If he did not find a warm place for the night, he would be dead shortly after the stores closed. The towering concrete skyscrapers signified wealth and prosperity to people on the streets unable to afford them. The long shadows and increased wind velocity created by the buildings made the prospects of sleeping on the sidewalk overnight terrifying to John. He began walking faster towards the first address on his list, St. Benedict’s. There were several deadbeats and degenerates hanging around outside, smoking cigarettes or talking to themselves on benches.
 

John found the sign on the gated entrance saying the shelter closes daily from 9 a.m. until 5 p.m. or until the temperature drops below 32 degrees. John had no way of telling what the temperature was, but from the looks of the people milling around outside, it was above 32. John pulled the paper from his pocket and looked at the next shelter; Mariner’s Miracle. It was only a couple of blocks down and a couple more towards the water. John stuffed the paper back in his pocket and headed in the direction of the next shelter. As he walked away from the shelter, an old black guy with white hair and beard wearing a weathered-looking army field jacket said, “They closed during the day, man. You gotta be up in line by like 4:30 or you ain’t gonna get a bed for the night neither.”
A few months ago, John would have walked right on by the old homeless man. Today, he might be a source for information. “Thanks. You staying in there?” he asked.
“I stay at all of ‘ em’. I am usually down at Mariner’s Miracle though. This one though got a couple of computers I use to send emails to my kids before they shut the lights off. Why? You out on the streets now, white boy?”
“No. I just need a place to stay for a few nights.” John lied. The idea that he could be in the very same situation as the homeless black guy was too much to face.
“You look like you’re in good enough shape. Why don’t you try Mariner’s Miracle up the street a bit? It is probably the best one. They can put you to work and all too. They give you a little cash at the end of the day, but there ain’t no smoking or drinking. They catch you smoking or drinking, and you’re back out on the streets.”
John pulled out the crumpled paper from his pocket and showed it to the black guy. “This is the one up here off Franklin, right.”
The black guy smiled. “That’s right. You might still have time to get picked up for the evening work crew if you hustle. Tell ‘ em you talked to me, Lester Short. They’ll take care of you.”
“Thanks, Lester.”
Lester started laughing. “No problem.”
 

Twenty minutes later, John found his way to Mariner’s Miracle. The outside almost looked like a cruise ship’s office with a picture of an ocean liner beside the name. The door was open, and behind what appeared to be bullet proof glass sat a rough-looking old guy in a shirt and tie. Oddly, that a guy who looked homeless himself would have a shirt on without a wrinkle on it and a correctly knotted tie.
“Yeah, I am looking for a place to stay for a few days. I ran into a guy named Lester Short over at St. Benedict’s who told me to come over here.”
The guy behind the counter stood up behind the glass to look John over from head to toe. “Do you have any weapons: guns, knives, or needles?”
“I have a wallet, and that is about it.” John replied.
“Just one moment.” The guy said and left his seat to retreat behind a door. The entryway was heated and didn’t smell like urine. There was no gum or cigarette butts on the floor. There was a buzz in the entryway, then a large Latino-looking guy in a security uniform with a pistol on his belt opened a door in the side of the entryway. The guy was a giant of a man at probably 6 feet 6 inches and two hundred fifty pounds easily. He wore thin rubber gloves.
“Before we allow anyone to be admitted at Mariner’s Miracle, we need to check you for weapons and secure all mobile phones, cameras, and communication devices. Respecting people’s privacy is paramount. You will need to give me any of these items that you currently have, and they will be safely stored in a secure locker until you need them.” The man looked eye to eye with John and said in a deep voice with no accent.
“Mine is dead, and I need a charger.” John did not want to give up his last possession so easily.
“Sir, you will need to give me the device, place your hands against the wall, and allow me to pat you down for weapons if you would like to get some help.” The giant security guard replied.
John figured he had nothing to lose. The giant guy could have grabbed him by the neck and shaken him to death if he felt like it. John placed his dead phone on the stainless steel counter under the window where the previous guy had yet to reappear. He turned and put his hands on the wall, and the security guard frisked him and found nothing.

“Thank you. Right this way.” The security guard said. He turned and pressed a number combination on some buttons next to the door knob. The door buzzed, and John followed the large man through the door, leaving his dead phone on the counter under the window.
 

The lobby looked like it had been a hotel decades ago, with high ceilings and thick, dark wooden trim, baseboards, and doors. There were a couple of elevators off to the left and what appeared to be a day room on the right, with furniture surrounding a television and some vending machines. The place was strangely empty. The security guard walked to the elevator and pushed the button for the basement. They entered the elevator and stood in silence. The elevator descended a single floor and into a small corridor with a shiny, buffed, and waxed floor with a few closed wooden doors. The security guard pushed another numerical entry code onto a keypad in front of the door that said “Guest Arrival” on it. He felt it a bit strange that he seemed to be the only “guest” in the entire building. As the door opened and they entered, it appeared as if they had come to the waiting room of a clinic. There was a fat, white guy that looked like he had been beaten and pissed his pants asleep in the corner. Beside him was a young black guy that turned to look as the door opened. He looked terrified and strung out on something. The rest of the seats were empty. In the corner of the ceiling was a camera pointing down to the guests in the waiting room. The security guard pointed at a seat, and John sat down. The guard walked past the black guy and towards the disheveled and unconscious older white guy.
 

Without a word, he grabbed the white guy by the hair and pulled him to the ground. The old white guy let out a scream of pain. The security guard let go of his hair and, with the same hand, backhanded the guy with a stiff blow that sent him crashing off the chairs and onto his back. The black guy stood up and quickly moved closer to John. John was in shock. He had no idea what in the hell was going on. There was nothing he could do or wanted to do except get the hell out of there immediately. He turned to look, but there was no handle on the door they had just walked through. The security guard grabbed the old white guy, who was now sobbing by the ankles, and dragged him across the floor until he was in front of another wooden door. The door automatically opened, and behind it was a white nurse in her fifties dressed in green-colored clinical scrubs with rubber gloves. She stood there holding the door open. She said nothing as the guard pulled the bawling old man through the door by the ankles. She looked at the black guy and John, smiled, and closed the door behind her.

Chapter 2

Job Assignments
 

After nervously waiting in the waiting room of the Guest Arrival room for almost half an hour, the door nurse’s door opened, and the same nurse stepped into the waiting room. “You, sir. You are next.” She said to the black guy who looked terrified.
“What happened to that other white motherfucker?” he demanded.
The nurse shook her head and responded, “Sir, please refrain from using language like that and come into my office.”
“You don’t tell me what to say. I am a grown man. I want out of this place right the fuck now.” He tried to sound confident in his demand.
“As you wish.” She turned her head behind the door and said something inaudible behind the door. “Alexander will help you.” She said as she looked back at the black guy in the waiting room who now was beating on the backside of the entry door with no handle.
 

Alexander evidently was the name of the huge Latino security guard. Alexander took about two strides outside of the nurse’s door and said, “Last chance. You can come with me, or I will assist you.”
“Fuck you. I don’t give a fuck who you are. I want out of this…” the black guy was interrupted by a quickly drawn taser gun that hit him in the chest and dropped him instantly to the floor writhing in pain. Alexander walked casually towards him, winding the tentacles attached to the small electronic darts still connected to the black guy around the taser gun itself. He stood over the black guy and gave him a swift kick in the stomach, and the black guy started coughing and choking as if he were about to vomit and cry out in the same action.
Alexander looked down. “So disrespectful,” he said, and he grabbed the black guy by the bare ankles protruding from his worn basketball shoes. As he dragged him across the floor, the black guy started screaming for help and tried reaching out for anything to stop him from being dragged into the nurse’s office. As Alexander pulled him through the nurse’s door, being held open by the nurse, he reached his arms out into the jamb of the door, trying desperately to prevent himself from being dragged through the last few inches of the door. Alexander released his ankles, and the basketball shoes fell to the floor. Alexander lifted up his large and shiny black boot and crashed it into the stomach of the black guy, who immediately balled up. Alexander then took a step over the guy and proceeded to kick him in the head until he forced the guy into the nurse’s office, and the door slammed behind him.
 

John sat there stunned and terrified. What in the hell was going on? What was this place? What kind of homeless shelter uses a taser on people, beats them to the ground, and drags them across the floor by their feet? John was scared himself. The old black guy, Lester, in front of St. Benedict’s made it seem as if he had been here many times. There was no one to call for help, and the only thing he knew was he was next. John did not sit; he paced the floor, wondering if he should attempt to steal the taser from Alexander if he reemerged and use it on him and then fight his way past the nurse. His thoughts were interrupted after a couple of short minutes by the nurse’s door opening.
 

“Sir, you are next.” The same nurse said to John.
John was scared. “Next, for what?”
“As part of your stay at Mariner’s Miracle, we have an indoctrination all guests must complete.” The nurse answered in a businesslike tone.
“Indoctrination? Is that what you call that? What happened to the black guy that just got tased, kicked, and dragged into your office screaming?”
She ignored a response to his question and replied. “We have an important schedule, sir. We have many people in need of assistance, and we do not tolerate belligerence and disrespect to our staff.”
John wanted nothing to do with Mariner’s Miracle. “I am going to check out another shelter. Why don’t you just let me out of here, and I will be on my way.”
“I am afraid that is not an option. You will need to complete your indoctrination. You may volunteer for the examination, or I will have Alexander assist you in your compliance if you insist.” She replied.
John was truly scared and confused. Why was he not allowed to leave? What happened to the black guy? He definitely did not want the huge Latino security guard beating in him. “Fine.” He replied.
 

John walked, had no choice but to walk through the door. He doubled his fist and walked slowly through the door, prepared to punch and kick his way to a stairwell or elevator. He had never hit a woman before, but if he got past Alexander, he already decided she would get drilled right in the face and choked out if necessary to be shown the exit. John walked through the door and into the room, which looked like an ordinary patient’s room in a doctor’s office, with an exam table, a stainless steel sink, some cabinets, and a picture of an ocean liner on the wall. In one corner, Alexander sat behind the desk, typing away on a laptop. In the other corner was the exit door. There was no sight of the black guy, and neither the nurse nor Alexander appeared to even have participated in his surrender.
“Sir, if you can please take a seat on the examiner’s table, we would like to ask you some personal questions, some health-related questions, and explain part of the indoctrination process to you.” The nurse said as she held a clipboard. John looked, but she had no name tag on. He wasn’t even sure she was a nurse.
John realized there would be no getting to the exit or elevator without Alexander pouncing on him. He instead sat on the examination table. “What happened to the two other guys that came in here?” he asked.
“That is none of your concern. They will be taken care of as many of our guests have varying needs. Now, can you tell me your name?” she continued.
“John.”
“Do you have a last name or some identification, John?”
John hesitated. He thought about giving her a fake name but decided to comply. “John St. John. I don’t have a driver’s license.”
She scribbled on her clipboard and asked, “What is your social security number?”
“Why do I have to give you my social security number?” John replied.
“John, this will be the last time that I repeat myself. You will give me the correct answer to the best of your knowledge without lying. If I need to repeat myself or believe you to be lying, Alexander will conclude this examination, and I suspect you will find it most unpleasant. Do you understand?”
John looked over at Alexander, who looked up at him and sneered. “482-77-1414,” John replied, and Alexander typed the number into the laptop.
“Are you from Chicago?”
“I am from Iowa but have been in the suburbs here for a few years between Arlington, Rosemont, and Schaumburg.” John had been working construction off and on around DuPage County and sometimes in downtown. His last bender got him fired and placed on unemployment.
“I see.” The nurse didn’t probe any further as to his recent whereabouts. She then asked, “Do you have family?”
“I have a son and a daughter.” John hadn’t seen his kids in a couple of years. There were no Christmas or birthday cards. His ex-wife had probably told them he was dead.
“Are you married or divorced?”
“Divorced.”
“Are you employed now?”
“Not anymore. If I had a job, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?” John thought the question was stupid.
The nurse didn’t bother answering and instead continued. “What was your profession?”
“I am a professional poker player. I do odd jobs to keep me in the game.” John replied with a false sense of pride. He was a drunk, a losing gambler, and a degenerate.
The nurse scribbled something down on her clipboard and then turned to Alexander. “How does his record look, Alexander?”
Alexander replied while reading from his laptop screen. “He is a felon. He just got out for a 90-day stint on his fourth drunk driving. There are several traffic violations, a possession charge, and two bankruptcies. He had a warrant in Iowa for failure to appear and did 30 days. He was divorced in 2005. He has two kids and has been on food stamps for the last two years. He was on unemployment until September of this year. There is no current address, but the last one was an apartment in Rosemont.”
John was surprised all of this information could be pulled up so quickly with just his social security number disclosed. “How does a homeless shelter have access to court records?”
Again, the nurse did not answer his question but asked him a question instead. “Mr. St. John, when was the last time you saw your children?”
“Maybe a year or two?” John wasn’t sure.
“I see. Are you taking any medication or drugs?”
“No.”
“Do you have an illness, pain, or disease you are aware of?”
“Not that I know of.”
She sat the clipboard down on the counter. “How do you feel about other homeless people, Mr. St. John?”
John refused to admit he was homeless. He felt he just needed a place to crash for a few days until he could get a game plan. The people on the streets were losers who had reached the end of the line. “I think most of them are scum. I am no bleeding heart, and I work or hustle for my money. I might be down on my luck right now, but I am not going to be out there begging for spare change. I just need a place to stay for a bit until I get a job, and I will be fine.”
The nurse looked confused by the response. “But you are homeless right now, is that correct?”
“Yes, I am homeless right now.” John reluctantly admitted.
“Mr. St. John, I am going to take your vitals, measure you, weigh you, and do a simple physical examination as part of our job skills training. Can you remove your coat? This will only take a minute.” She said as she reached for a blood pressure cuff hanging on the machine. John saw no harm in the request and removed his coat. She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm and turned on the machine that inflated it. She checked his temperature, weighed him, and measured him. She examined his arms looking for tracks from shooting drugs and found none. She finished up quickly, jotted a few notes on her clipboard, and looked up with a fake smile. “Mr. St. John, I am going to leave you with Alexander to explain our mission. Once you have completed the indoctrination process, Alexander will take you to your quarters. The ship is almost full, and so is the open bay. We will be getting underway tomorrow, and you have a big day ahead of you.” The nurse left her clipboard on Alexander’s desk and exited through the stairwell doors.
 

“St. John” Alexander paused, stood up, and walked around his desk. “To you, my name is Sir. You call me Sir and only Sir. You are going to be taking part in an experiment to help clean up the streets of America by getting some of our most vulnerable people the help that they need. You will be trained in your position and earn a wage of $100 per hour for your time. You will be given a bunk in the open bay for tonight and then either a stateroom or a bunk in the berthing, depending on the ship’s capacity. You will be expected to work an 8-hour day and sometimes longer. You will be paid time and a half for all hours over 40 and double time on Sundays. Your answers to the following questions are designed to help Mariner’s Mission place you in the correct job according to your skills. Answer them honestly.” Alexander removed the piece of paper the nurse was writing on and replaced it with the questionnaire. He handed the clipboard and a pen to John.
 

John was stunned by the response. If he was confused before, he was now absolutely baffled by what was just stated to him. $100 an hour? That was the most money he had ever been offered in his life. There was no way a homeless shelter could be offering that kind of money. John wanted to ask what the catch was but opted not to. He looked down at the clipboard and read the questions.
 

1. Have you ever been in the Navy or worked on board a ship before?

2. Can you lift 50 pounds?
3. Is your vision correctable to 20/20?
4. Can you operate a band saw or table saw or wood chipper?
5. Do you have any medical training?
6. Can you stand for 4 hours at a time without taking a break?
7. Can you give and receive orders and carry them out without question?

8. Have you ever worked in the meat processing industry?
9. Would you consider yourself more of a loner or a people person?
10. What motivates you more; money, recognition, or fear?
 

John found the questions simple enough, but nothing in the questionnaire alluded to what the actual job was. He answered each and handed the clipboard back to Alexander.
 

“Thank you for answering these. You are effectively on the clock as of now. I will now give you a brief tour of the galley, the open bay, the showers, and the lounge area. You will get a sea bag given to you, and you will be fitted for a proper uniform. Once you receive your uniform, you will need to stow it in your locker beside your bunk and have the remainder of the afternoon to speak with other guests or relax in the upstairs lounge. You will not be allowed to leave the facility or make any telephone calls until our return from sea. The ship will be out approximately 4-5 days. You will receive all meals onboard the ship while underway free of charge. You will be paid by the disbursing clerk before you disembark when the ship pulls back in. If you will follow me, I will escort you upstairs.” Alexander said as he accepted the clipboard from John, laid it on the desk, and opened the exit door to the stairwell.

Chapter 5
 

Meet and Greet
 

It was almost noon when the shift was called for the day. The entire Rendering Team was exhausted and emotionally drained by their first day of work. They were far enough out to sea that they could not see land and had no bearing on where they were in Lake Michigan. The sun was overhead, and the cold wind from the sea made most shiver as they were covered now in cold sweats. The team mustered on the foredeck and then were led down to the decontamination and showers area. All the men were required to undress, put their rubbers in one large wheeled container, and their coveralls and underwear in another. They proceeded through showers and reissued new underwear, coveralls, and slippers. John thought about dropping his sea bag at the quarterdeck with his few possessions and a change of clothes but decided not to ask about it. The team then descended in their new blue coveralls and slippers towards their berthing and galley area. They were forbidden to roam about the ship, and most were still in shock from their first day on the job.

The men went to the mess decks and found a buffet of food awaiting them. There was ham, chicken, steak, and pasta. There was a full salad bar and a choice of soda, milk, coffee, or juice. John didn’t feel like eating and grabbed a cup of coffee as he watched the galley staff bring out treys of food, plates, glasses, and silverware. The galley staff seemed oblivious to what was going on around the ship with their friendly smiles and steady work pace. One could easily have mistaken them for working on a cruise ship or an all-you-can-eat buffet-style restaurant. There were two small lounges at the aft of the mess decks. A flat-screen TV, a few tables, and couches were arranged so multiple people could watch television or play cards. Further aft still was the door to the berthing area. John decided to sit down on the couch with a cup of coffee and collect his thoughts.
 

“Not eating today?” it was Jesus. He was walking around the galley in blue jeans and a dark seamen’s sweater. John looked up at him, not sure what to say. “It is alright, you can talk. The first day is always a little shocking. You get used to it.”
John paused before he said something. He saw the side arm Jesus had holstered on his belt. “I am just not hungry.” John muttered. He lied. He was starving.
“What? Not hungry? Weren’t you working in the Box? That is my favorite position on the ship. That is the end of the road for our passengers. It is good protein for the fish too.” Jesus said as he looked over the Rendering Team walking around silently in the galley. Most of the Rendering Team looked as if they just survived a plane accident and were still in shock. Some men got a plate of food, and others, like John, just sat down, holding back tears or talking to themselves.
A cook emerged from the galley into the dining area with a pot of soup. “It is cold out, fellas. This is chicken noodle. My own mother’s recipe. Try some; it will warm you up.” The cook said aloud to no one in particular. Most men just stood around and looked at each other.
“Gentlemen, congratulations; your first day of work has been completed. Relax, it is over. You can talk to each other, meet your teammates, and enjoy a meal. We are going to be out here for a few days. We will be back again tomorrow evening, and if you do not have food in your stomach, you will get cold. If you are cold, you won’t complete your work. Eat up.” Jesus said loudly to the crowd as he filled his plate with food and sat down in front of the television and began to eat while watching the news.
 

John figured the food would not be laced if Jesus was eating it. He was hungry. He had not eaten anything all day, and the smell of the food sunk deep into his core. He walked up to the buffet line and grabbed a tray and a plate from the stack and stood behind a short, older, long-haired guy shuffling through the line. The guy reached out for some salad tongs, and John realized it was the stacker he had been working with all night. The man looked broken and crazed. He trembled as he put pieces of lettuce on his plate and then pushed his tray along. John took a piece of ham and some potatoes from the line and then sat down at one of the tables away from the buffet line. The stacker sat down beside him and put his hands together over his tray and prayed over his meal. It was a lengthy prayer, and when he opened his eyes, it was John sitting in front of him. He looked deeply at John but said nothing.
 

“I was in The Box with you.” John said quietly across the table.
The stacker looked startled back into reality. He stared at John’s face and recognized it was indeed the other man in the space. “We are going to hell for that.”
“I think we might have already arrived.” replied John. He cut the ham with his fork and knife and took a bite and began chewing. It was delicious. His body craved food, and he could not remember the last time he ate a sit-down meal outside of jail. He scooped up some potatoes and quickly put them in his mouth. He tasted the butter and cheese. They were not instant potatoes but wholesome and freshly whipped. John noticed the stacker began to weep. John said nothing and devoured his meal. The stacker did not touch his meal; he just quietly wept over it.
 

John pushed away from the table and noticed a few men talking at tables amongst themselves. He was driven to want to communicate with the others to see what they knew but noticed the scullery on the opposite side of the dining room where he was to place his empty tray and plate through the window. He kept his coffee cup from the tray and turned around to get more from the dispenser. John looked around and the clock on the wall read 12:30 p.m. He had been up for almost 12 unforgettable hours and wanted to lie down. He didn’t want to drink the rest of the coffee he poured and walked back towards the scullery and placed the cup in the window. He made his way for the door under the sign that read BERTHING AREA REMAIN SILENT ABOUT THE DECK.
 

John opened the door, and the room was dark but lit by red lights above. There were approximately a dozen bunk beds and lockers beside each. On the forward bulkhead, there was an opened door to the head with a small light above one of the sinks, identifying the space in the dark. There was a hatch that was opened and went below deck on the other side of the berthing area. John turned his attention towards the bunks and lockers. All were named and numbered. He could barely read the names or numbers because of the darkness. All of a sudden, the lights in the berthing came on, and he was startled.
 

“Lights out are at 2 p.m. The berthing is secured until then.” It was Jesus who had followed him into the berthing area. “I know you are tired, but we need to keep everyone on the same schedule. Besides, we have church coming up here at 12:30. That should run about an hour, and after that, you guys can hit your bunks. Get yourself a cup of coffee and sit on the couch for a few minutes.” Jesus motioned with his hand to follow. John couldn’t believe he said the word church. He said nothing and followed him back out the door. As soon as they exited the berthing, Jesus said loudly. “Finish up your meals. We will be going to church in a few minutes. After church, you guys will be able to hit your bunks. You have all been assigned a bunk and a locker, and your names are taped to the bunks and lockers. They are in alphabetical order, so it should be easy to find yours.” No one replied.
 

John sat on the couch and looked up at the television. There was a beautiful blonde woman holding a microphone on a city street with police cars behind her. The sound was turned down so John could not hear it but noticed Milwaukee Police on a what looked like a SWAT team van behind the female reporter. John realized they were headed north up the coast and still within range to pick up a television signal from Milwaukee. John closed his eyes and sat back in the couch. He was hoping this was all a dream and he would wake up soon. It was as if he was being shown his past, present, and future out of Dickens’ Christmas Story and desperately wanted to awake to go back and change his ways. Instead, John just sat back in the couch and felt like crying himself. The cell in Dupage County jail seemed like a resort to what he had just gone through. He felt he was never going to make it and soon he would be killed too. He was exhausted. He just wanted to sleep and never wake up.
 

“Everyone fall in. Time for church. Those of you who have not finished eating are done. Put your trays in the scullery window and fall in. Shut off the televisions and get off your asses.” Jesus yelled as he slid his tray through the scullery window to an unseen dishwasher on the other side of the bulkhead. No one dared to say anything about their religious belief or lack thereof. Instead, one by one they shuffled together in a single-file line of exhausted men in blue coveralls and foam slippers.
 

Jesus led them out of the galley and mess decks aft down the starboard side passageway until they reached a door. Jesus opened the door, and all the men walked in. There was a small makeshift altar and a large cross with a crucified Jesus behind it. There were half a dozen pews on each side of an aisle and a piano in the corner. The men filed in and sat in the pews. “I will be back in an hour. Silence in church,” Jesus said as he looked into the eyes of every man and then closed the door. No sooner than he closed the door in walked a tall, thin, white man in his late forties or early fifties. He had long hair that touched his shoulders and stuck out on top as if he had foregone a comb years ago. He walked with a limp and was wearing a priest’s garments and carried a Bible. He closed the door behind him and walked directly over to the piano without saying a word. Without reading any sheet music, he began playing a familiar classical piece. John could not place the piece, but it reminded him of the background music in cartoons when he was a child watching Looney Tunes. All of the men were set at ease. A man of god with the gift of music was a welcome visitor in the eyes of the desperate. He played for a couple of minutes only and stood up and approached the altar.
 

“My name is Father Jensen. I am here to guide your souls while you are onboard this beautiful ship and carrying on amongst its devout crew. Hopefully, you too will understand the mission we have been chosen for. Not all of you will come to see the light, and that is fine too. However, your rewards for compliance and obedience are eternal happiness.” He paused and looked over the new Rendering Team. He patted his Bible with one hand and looked at each individual closely as if he were reaching into their souls for a look-see at what he was dealing with. When he locked eyes with John, he smiled. He then cast his gaze on the others and spoke in a fatherly but forceful tone. “I want you all to remember this sermon I call the four S’s: Sacrifice, Seclusion, Silence, and Suffering. I will begin with Sacrifice. I am sure each and every one of you has sacrificed some very important things in this life: your friends, your families, your careers, women who loved you, neighbors, and business relationships. Many of you have sacrificed these relationships out of greed, selfishness, addictions, and short-sighted drunken pursuits. You sacrificed prosperity, love, trust, friendships, parenthood, and meaningful work because you wanted to do it your way. You sacrificed the potential good you may have done on this earth for what amounts to failure. Ask yourselves what it is that you have sacrificed. Do not ever forget the life you sacrificed going forward because you will never get it back. The good news for you is that starting today, you will be sacrificing your old ways in fulfillment of a higher cause. You will sacrifice the false hopes, the sins of your ways, and will be cleansed in the satisfaction of your work for this fine mission.” Father Jensen stopped.
 

If the men looked beat down and depressed before walking them through the reminders of their failures, it made several of their heads fall to their chests. John was not deaf either. The thought of another man sleeping with his former wife and raising his children in his home stabbed him in the heart. The countless losing hands in cards, the drunken fights, the cops, the jail time, and all the money he ever made was gone. He was guilty. Everyone he knew he had let down in pursuit of his own folly. His fascination with being Mr. Big Shot or the high roller had collapsed into a pile of shit that was now defined as a broken, drunken, penniless felon. He closed his eyes and nodded his head. It was a pretty brutal punch to the stomach, and he felt a tear run down his face. He was so ashamed.
 

“Let me speak now of seclusion. It is you who have secluded and isolated yourselves from the meaningful things in life. You have isolated yourselves from love, friendship, academic pursuits, spiritual endeavors, and careers that would allow you to support yourselves, let alone offer anything to those with less than even you. You have been secluded in your world of sin, of false hopes, of adultery, of lying, stealing, fighting, and denial. You have secluded the rest of the world from your own misguided ambitions in pursuit of fantasies that benefitted only one person, you. Well, I am here to tell you that you will remain secluded until the end of your days. Some of you will last only a few more days and perish as you are sick, weak, and incapable of helping yourselves. Others will understand that it is your seclusion from the rest of the world at large that will allow you to carry out your mission without distraction. You may ask for forgiveness, and that is the first step towards your resurrection. However, there is not enough time left in your lives to atone for all of your sins. Your only hope is to be secluded in the mission at hand.” Father Jensen paused again to see if the men were paying attention. There were some who were stunned by Father Jensen’s words by the look on their faces, while others were barely able to stay awake. John sat there in silence, baffled. His contemplation of the moment was interrupted by Father Jensen’s continuing sermon.
 

“Silence is something all of you know well. You surely have been vocal in your passion to destroy your own lives. You shouted your own name in your pursuit of your selfish endeavors. You told everyone of your great accomplishments, your conquests of women, and your small-time hustles. You spouted off to everyone who was willing to listen. You sought out people who you could manipulate and use for your own satisfaction. Look where it has gotten you. You can scream all you want to right now, and no one will care. Just as you have forsaken others in need, it is you now who is in need. No, there is no one left who believes your stories, your promises, or your self-interested tales. Your voice has been silenced. Society has told you in one loud voice that drowns out all other sound: you are a failure. No longer will you speak of yourselves in grandiose terms. You are now surrounded by equals. Misery loves company, and although you may eventually find comradery amongst your new teammates, you are to remain silent in the face of love, happiness, and friendship. It is quite simple: you do not deserve it. Instead, in your silence, you will replay every episode in your life and see that it is indeed you who has created the situation you are in now. In your silence, you will be tortured by the memories of the life you forsake.” Father Jensen preached as he limped out from behind the altar. There was something not right with Father Jensen, John thought to himself. John was no man of God, but he knew the stories of Jesus spending his time with the poor, the sick, and the prostitutes. There was no story of forgiveness in Father Jensen’s message. How he became a religious figure on this ship piloted by the devil himself was as surreal as everything else since the moment he walked into Mariner’s Miracle shelter.
 

“This leads me to your suffering. Spare me your tales of failure and hardship. You were given one life, and you ruined it in pursuit of your own gratification. Have you thought for a moment of the people you have harmed by your actions? It is their suffering that matters. It is your suffering that will be the wages of your sin. What separates you from our cargo?” Father Jensen stopped to see if anyone would answer. No one said a word. “I will answer it for you. God’s will. Our cargo made others suffer to the point that they needed to be imprisoned and kept away from the rest of the flock. You are merely degenerates who have wasted everyone’s time. Those days are done. You will repay society with your own suffering now. This is the end of the road. The next step for you is Judgment Day. Your only hope is to carry out your mission to the best of your ability, no matter how harsh the conditions, in hopes that God will forgive you in the end. May you use these words in your thoughts to motivate you in your work. Let us pray in silence.” Father Jensen bowed his head. John looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Father Jensen was a lunatic. He sounded like a washed-up cable preacher on acid. John looked at him with his head bowed. He was the only guy on the ship’s crew not carrying a sidearm.
 

The minutes passed, and John just sat there contemplating his next move. He had to get off the ship. He would surely be killed like the hundreds of others and ground up into fish food by the next Rendering Team. He had no weapon, and they were out in the middle of the lake. He would need to take control of the bridge and the helm, but without a weapon, this was impossible. He would be killed instantly. He would have to wait until they pulled into port, he thought. Surely all the bodies would be processed, and the ship would need to refuel and bring on new provisions just like Chicago. He decided he would make a run for it. If he had to jump over the side in the freezing water and collapse into passing traffic, he would do it. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. In silence, he begged it was all a dream and he would soon awake anywhere else in his previous life.
 

John felt himself dozing off and raised his head. Father Jensen was still standing in front of the altar with his head bowed deep in prayer. John looked at the others who appeared to be deep in prayer or asleep in the pews. From the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the space open. It was Jesus entering quietly. He closed the door behind him, and Father Jensen raised his head and took notice. “I am done,” he said to Jesus.
“Thank you, Father.” Jesus replied, and Father Jensen grabbed his Bible off the altar and walked out the door without another word. When the door closed, Jesus looked at his watch and then at the Rendering Team.
“Wake up, you fucking bastards. Father Jensen is gone.” Jesus said loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Let me give you my own short sermon.” He began as he walked behind the altar. “Everyone on this goddamn ship was sitting in the very pews you are now. Everyone of this crew was once a homeless piece of shit like you. I used to be a petty officer in the navy with a wife and kid back in Norfolk. I got into drugs and got kicked out of the navy. Then I got into selling drugs and got busted. I did a little time in the joint and ended up losing my wife and kid. I couldn’t get a job and soon enough I was on the streets. I walked into a shelter in Norfolk a few years back and they saved my life. The reality is this work needs to be done. These fucking scumbags that we are grinding up and spitting out into the sea are the worst of mankind. They don’t deserve to take up the taxpayers’ money staying in prison with their stupid gangs and tattoos. They are scum and their lives are over. Last year we processed 31,000 of these shitbags. I made almost $150,000 last year. Not that it is going to do much good because once you are a company man you are alone forever. I have no use for the money. However, I pay for my ex-wife’s home, my child’s clothes, their family vacations, Christmas presents, college, and everything. It is all done anonymously. They get a money order every month. The satisfaction I get is that she will always wonder who keeps financing her dreams. I can do from here what I could not do in person. You will too. You will all make good money but realize quickly it ain’t about the money. Money can’t buy you love, happiness, or friendship. Those are the most important things in life. You take what you want from Father Jensen’s crazy damn sermon, but the one thing you need to never forget is silence is mandatory if you are still around when this year’s cruise is over. You never open your fucking mouths about the company. There are hired informants on the ships, on the streets, in the jails, and on the piers. Every year we grind up guys who ran their mouths. Idiots try to run, and the cops eventually pick them up. No one is going to believe your crazy fucking stories, and they are eventually turned back over to us and processed. Every one of you that make it out of the Rendering Team will get one of these nice ankle bracelets too.” Jesus paused to pull up his pant leg to show them to the men who were now wide awake and stunned into reality by his rant. “That is right, you are tracked for the rest of your lives. Don’t ever let them catch you in a bar, a liquor store, a strip joint, or any other house of sin. Don’t ever let them catch you with a woman either. We have women who deal with the women. You get caught trying to make a woman, and you will be dead before your next meal. I have seen it many times. You are a company man for the rest of your lives, and you never stray, ever. After our first tour, those of you that make it will be allowed to strike into another division instead of the Rendering Team. It depends on what we need at the time, but you work in the laundry, the galley, on the pier, ship’s maintenance, recruiting, and some administrative stuff if you’re smart enough. Everyone starts on the Rendering Team, though. Even ol’ Father Jensen’s ass was on the Rendering Team. That was some funny shit.” Jesus laughed, recalling an episode to himself he didn’t bother sharing. “It is almost taps. You guys have to be exhausted. When we get back to the galley and the mess decks, the berthing is on the starboard side. Your names are alphabetical and tagged to your bunk and your locker. Reveille is 8 p.m. We will have breakfast, and the first container will be on deck at 9 a.m.” Jesus paused and looked at the crew who were sitting stunned, silent in the pews. “Any questions?”
John felt deep down for some reason Jesus was telling the truth. It was bizarre. It was impossible to rationalize. Then it came to him. He slowly raised his hand. Jesus looked at him and nodded his head. John cleared his voice and asked, “Who are the masked guards with machine guns?”
Jesus laughed. “Those are the G-Men. They are supplied by the State Department. Some of them are ex-special forces guys, some are former CIA, FBI, and other crazy shit. They are the only ones who lead normal lives. They change out every port and never take off their masks. They have their own galley, head, and staterooms on the deck below. They drive the ship, run the communications, and provide armed security. Some are really good guys, and others are assholes. Do exactly what they say because those guys can smoke you without hesitation, and no one will give a shit. Do your job, and they leave you alone. If they tell you to do something, do it. Sometimes they will strike up a conversation with you, but they mostly keep to themselves.” Jesus answered. He looked at his watch and then back up at the men in the pews. “Alright, guys. Let’s get going. Time for bed. We have a long night tomorrow.” The crew stood up and one by one followed Jesus down the passageway towards their berthing. 

Chapter 7
 

Abandon Ship
 

It was now late March, and a cold rain fell over the city of Chicago. John’s discharge from the Miracle was brief for a complex process. John was escorted by Jesus to the admin department on the third deck of the ship and away from the galley and the berthing area. The admin department consisted of a small space and one balding white guy in his fifties in red coveralls who appeared to be playing a marathon game of solitaire, Jerry. Jerry slouched behind his desk and laptop and appeared to be in desperate need of some sunlight. The space was rather small with several books and binders in a bookshelf mounted to the bulkhead beside a large file cabinet. Jerry started typing away on his laptop to give the appearance he was busy and looked up when the door was undogged and opened from the outside by Jesus.
“Got a discharge for ya, Jerry. He just finished up on the Rendering Team and wants the billet for recruiting.” Jesus announced as he and John walked through the door and then dogged it closed behind them.
Jerry looked up and shook his head. “Father Jensen wants it.”
“Father Jensen? Recruiting?” This seemed out of place. “Who is going to be giving church sermons then?”
Jerry leaned back in his chair and replied, “I don’t know, but he put in for the recruiting job about an hour ago.”
Jesus seemed frustrated. “Wrong. That buzzard is not leaving the ship until he has a replacement. I am not doing church services and company training all summer long while he waltzes around the beach and parks talking to God.”
Jerry laughed. “I didn’t say he had it; I said he wants it.”
Jesus put his hand on John’s shoulder. “This ol’ boy here has been down in The Box for the last four months and deserves a break. Father Jensen has been moping around this damn ship for over a year now, and I have never seen him do a damn thing except his bullshit church service.”
“It is all he has to do. It is in his contract. I have read it myself.” Jerry confirmed.
“C’mon, Jerry. Don’t let that charlatan skip out on the only duty he has on the boat without a standing relief. You can have St. John here discharged within half an hour and on a van ride back to the shelter. That fucker can wait for a relief to come over the brow.”
“Technically, you are correct. The guy is an asshole.” Jerry laughed at his own remark. “He also needs to have his billet filled before he can strike into a new division. I am switching out too this time. I want to get off the ship myself. He will be pissed when he finds out I left too. Fuck him, I will get this guy processed and on the van in short order. I need to check onboard the St. Lucia by midnight.”
“The St. Lucia? That is a lot smaller than the Miracle. I saw it when we pulled in. It is a beautiful boat. But, I heard they are going to fill it full of gangsters and shit.” Jesus had worked the “live” boats before. These were brutal for a Rendering Team petty officer because it usually meant walking guys to the fantail or an empty space and shoot them or lock them in while a nitrogen system put them to sleep forever. He preferred dealing with the dead; the lumber.
“It is. Maybe a hundred or so total. The crew is about twenty. The Rendering Team are all veteran company guys though and not recruits. It just runs between here and Milwaukee from spring to fall. This year they are running this Rapper’s Challenge on the Lake. They have this phony website and social media page already up. These idiots are getting advertisements sent to their smartphones. We are gonna suck in a bunch of shitbag gangsters, thugs, and pimps with an all-you-can-drink and smoke-free booze and weed cruise.” Jerry laughed at the very thought of cleaning out the ghetto company style.
“Oh, that is great. One of the G-Men was telling me they are going to start putting some biological shit in a bunch of weed and get out on the streets in Englewood too. Make sure you stay away from that shit if those guys start smoking it on the boat.” added Jesus.
“Yeah, I heard that too. The company wants that south side shit cleaned up sooner than later. We need more legit black guys because there is no fucking way we can have white guys in their recruiting.” Jerry was speaking the truth. There were no white people in most of south Chicago unless they were fat skanks raising mixed kids on food stamps or cops.
“Listen, man. Get St. John here squared away and I will catch up with you before you go. I got some other guys on the Rendering Team who are staying onboard but going to be striking for new billets. I need them out of the berthing and into the vacant staterooms. How many guys in the crew are switching out in Chicago?” Jesus knew he was staying aboard the Miracle until at least sunrise.
“Most of the crew. A lot of them have already left. You leaving?”
Jesus didn’t hesitate. “Shit yeah I am leaving. I need a freakin’ break. I have to get these jokers taken care of first.” He replied and then undogged the door and stepped out onto the catwalk.
“I hear ya.” replied Jerry as the door closed with a thud. “Alright, St. John, sit down and I will get ya discharged and some new orders.”

John sat down in the only other chair in the office. The discharge process included John being banded with an ankle bracelet that was scanned into Jerry’s laptop and activated. John’s picture was taken, and he was issued a Mariner’s Miracle identification card. It would be the only identification he would carry. Jerry opened the file cabinet and grabbed a company mobile phone and charger. He tested the phone and then informed John that it is the only phone and internet he was allowed to use. He was also told that all the calls are recorded, and every single search or page he was on would be tracked. John was also informed that there was no social media or pornography usage allowed. The phone came with two numbers in the contacts; one for the quarterdeck of the Miracle and one for the front desk of the shelter. John was reminded that there were G-Men and undercover company men out in town who simply follow the GPS on the ankle bracelets and do random inspections and on-the-spot drug testing with hair follicles. John was reminded that the drug tests are 100% accurate, and any suspicion of drug use, alcohol use, interaction with women, or being caught in a prohibited establishment would end his life.
 

“Okay, now for the money.” Jerry paused as he did a quick search of John’s time on board. “I got you down for 128 days at $800 per day. That comes out to $102,400. That is tax-free too.”
John about fell out of his chair. He felt like he just won the lottery. “Holy shit. Are you serious?”
“I never lie. It is a bad habit. You can only take out $1,000 a day in cash. If you want to transfer money to family or charities, you can do so by using money orders only. The disbursing clerk works at the shelter Monday through Fridays and will explain that part if you are so inclined. If you need extra money for the weekend, you need to make sure you visit the disbursing clerk during business hours. You need to have your locker cleaned out, your bunk stripped, and linens thrown down the hatch to laundry before you can check out with the quarterdeck. The van leaves on the hour for the shelter, and if you hurry, you can catch the next one leaving in about twenty minutes.” Jerry stated as he stood up from his chair.
 

John exited the space and dogged the door behind him. He burst out laughing. It was the first time he had laughed in months. He hit the motherlode. $100,000 was more money than he had ever had in his life. He walked quickly aft down the catwalk and across the deck unescorted. It was the first time in four months he was not escorted. He made his way to the berthing and tore the linens off his bunk and threw them down the laundry hatch on the deck. He opened his locker and took out his wallet. It still had a twenty and some other bills inside. It was all he had. His old clothes and his sea bag from the first day had been confiscated and never returned. John didn’t even bother asking. He stuffed his wallet inside his coveralls and headed for the quarterdeck without saying a word to anyone. The rain was picking up and he had not been issued a pea coat or rain gear. He walked faster towards the quarterdeck.

“Can I see your ID?” The officer of the deck asked as John approached.
“Yeah, I just got it.” John pulled the ID from his wallet and showed the officer of the deck. The officer looked at it carefully and then looked back at John.
“This got issued today. You just getting off the Rendering Team?” the officer asked.
“Yeah, I am transferring to the shelter.” John replied eagerly.
“Let me see your ankle bracelet.” The officer said. John pulled up his pant leg to reveal the bracelet.
The officer returned the ID and nodded his head. “Looks like you made it. Congratulations. Welcome to the company. The duty van is the white one on the pier with darkened windows over there by the garbage dumpster. Should be leaving in about 5 minutes.” The officer of the deck said as he pointed down to the pier.
“Thank you.” replied John and he turned and walked down the brow, down the steel ladders, and onto the pier. It felt good to be on solid ground again. He ran down the pier as he was now getting wet. The Asian-looking duty driver checked his ID and let him in the warm van. The driver said nothing and John asked. “Are you going to the Mariner’s Miracle shelter?”
The driver sneered. “Buddy, that is the only place this van goes back and forth to and from.”
“Good.” John said as he sat in the back of the van.
 

The driver put the van in gear and pulled away from the pier and out the front gate of the port of Chicago. The van driver drove silently along the highway as John looked out the window at the sprawling skyscrapers that lit up the night but disappeared into the low clouds moving out to sea. His thoughts of the Rendering Team and The Box were moving further from his mind with each mile the van drove. His mind raced with thoughts of an escape. It was going to be difficult as he would need to get his money and have somewhere to put it. Without an ID, he could not rent a car, buy a plane ticket, get a job, purchase anything over the internet, or get a bank account. The company knew what they were doing. John could only assume the company itself was any number of straw companies that were all set up to carry out the mission. John reached down and felt the thick nylon strap around his ankle. He could tell when Jerry, the admin guy, had him put it on; there was a piece of metal or something inside the nylon that would make it damn near impossible to cut. That would require further inspection in the morning.
 

As the van made its way north, it eventually got off on the interstate, made a couple of turns, and John was lost in some neighborhood in Chicago he was unfamiliar with. The van went through several lights and then turned onto Franklin. A few minutes later, they pulled into the alley beside the Mariner’s Miracle shelter. The driver clicked a garage door opener, and a loading dock garage door slowly began to open. “Just follow the line on the floor, and it will lead you to the security desk. Show them your badge, and they will let you in.” The driver said as he looked in the rear-view mirror.
“Thanks.” John replied as he exited the van. He quickly climbed the stairs and walked through the open door. The overhead lights were dim but bright enough to see the loading dock was empty except for the yellow lines on the cement floor that led to an office behind glass and a steel door. John began walking, and the garage door closed behind him. He approached the bullet proof glass window and showed his ID to a large black guy in a khaki-colored security uniform with a sidearm. The guy was watching one of several monitors on his desk. “I am John St. John. I am checking in to the shelter tonight.”
“Slide your ID through the slot.” The guard said as he stood up. He looked as big as a house when he stood up. He scanned John’s ID, and a light on his console turned green, and he heard the steel door to his right click.
“You have to check in later in the morning. There is no one here after hours except security. There is a duty bunk room and shower on the third floor. It is room 301. Here is the key. The vending machines are on the first floor. Staff will be here at 7am and you can finish checking in then.” The guard replied through a microphone and slid John his ID back and a plastic credit card-looking hotel room key through the slot. John nodded his head and opened the steel door and walked back into the shelter.
 

The steel door from the loading dock opened up at the end of a long corridor inside the shelter. John followed the hallway with his foam slippers squeaking on the polished floor as he walked. The lights were on throughout the hallway that apparently led to the lobby on the other end. The walls of the corridor were adorned with pictures of Chicago: Navy Pier, Wrigley Field, United Center, and the usual skyline and Lake Michigan pictures. John imagined a picture of himself working in The Box alongside a picture of Navy Pier. He shook his head and continued towards the lobby. The lobby was empty and quiet but looked familiar even though he had only been in it once. He walked over to the vending machines and smiled. It had been a long time since he had had a candy bar. John fumbled through his wallet and pulled out a single dollar bill and placed it in the vending machine dollar slot. The vending machine ate his dollar without offering him a selection. He pushed on the machine and nothing. John cursed at the machine and wanted to smash it but knew he was being monitored by cameras. He decided to find his room. John walked back through the lobby and onto the elevator. He pushed the button for the 3rd floor and the elevator doors closed and began to ascend. The elevator looked like an old hotel elevator with the wooden paneling and patina-colored doors that were evidence they had been in operation for decades.
 

The doors opened at the 3rd floor, and John exited onto a long and carpeted hallway. The shelter surely had to be a hotel at some point in its past, John thought to himself. He looked to his right and noticed a camera pointing at the elevators and towards the hall. Across from him was a stairwell. He turned to his left and slid his plastic key card into the door for room 301. A green light blinked, and the door lock turned. John entered the room, and the door closed behind him. It looked like a hotel room from the past with its outdated curtains and furnishings. There was a single bed in the corner and a desk with a lamp against the wall. There was no television, just a bedside radio on a nightstand next to a Bible. John walked to the curtains and opened them. Unlike the other windows that had been filled in and turned into a continuing piece of wall, this window looked right down on Franklin St. A single car drove up the street and turned. John walked the few steps to the desk and chair. He sat down and kicked off his foam slippers and socks. It had been months since he wore any other clothes than coveralls, rubbers, and the slippers. He decided one of the first things he was going to get with his money was clothes. He wanted a good pair of hiking boots and socks, some new underwear, some jeans, shirts, and a jacket. Shit, he needed everything and a backpack too.
 

John placed his wallet on the table and slipped out of the coveralls. He laid down on the bed, closed his eyes, and his mind began to unwind. He thought of the piles of dead bodies in the containers, the sound of the chipper grinding up body parts, and the forgotten and nameless teammates he left this very building with a few months ago who were now ground up and eaten by fish. He thought of the demeanor of everyone he came into contact with that day. He tried to imagine them on the Rendering Team cutting up bodies and going through the same gruesome acts he had committed. He thought of the conversation between Jesus and Jerry, the admin guy, talking about recruiting blacks to a ship with booze and drugs. John wondered if all the ships and boats had some sort of boxed-in room for cutting up bodies or were there other methods of disposing of bodies in mass. He thought about the constant reminder to stay away from women. If the company trusted guys to walk around openly in the city, why were women off-limits, he wondered? John figured it was either women represented a distraction from the mission or the company just didn’t want to deal with accidental children or venereal diseases.
 

John’s thoughts drifted to his ex-wife and his son and daughter. If only for a moment, they were a happy family. All that remained now was a single wallet-size Christmas photo from several years ago. The kids were teenagers now, and it had been years since he had seen them. He doubted he would even recognize his own flesh and blood. They had written him off years ago. He was too ashamed to reach out when it all fell apart. He was broke and an alcoholic with no job. John wondered if they were still living in the suburbs of Cedar Rapids with their stepfather and their mother. A deep sense of guilt washed over John. He had indeed forsaken a woman who loved him and bore him children for the immediate gratification of alcohol and gambling. The children needed a father, and she needed a husband. He was hurt and filled with rage when she left and took the kids, but deep down, he knew he deserved it. A guy he used to play poker with at the casino in Riverside informed him she married a buddy of his who was a foreman in a factory in Cedar Rapids. It was easy to dismiss then with a bottle of booze, but the feeling of his irresponsibility and failure now came crashing down on him like an avalanche. He was now alone, and the fact that he had hurt them and failed them was intolerable. He had literally seen men killed for far less. He left his own wife with no choice but to run to the arms of another man who could provide for her two little kids that were not even his. This could never be forgiven. It would take years of counseling and countless nights of shame and confusion for the kids to learn the hard way that their father was a scumbag. John’s thoughts drifted to Jesus’s words about how he was taking care of his family anonymously and paying for their livelihood and upholding his commitment even though he never saw them. John realized he too would be the greatest anonymous and absent father possible. Unfortunately, he had to find out where they were and get an address. Without knowing the name of her new ex-husband, it was going to be difficult to find her and the kids. He would need to use the internet somehow to find them without being tracked by the company. John lay there alone, empty and crying. In his misery, he thought of the words of Father Jensen’s first sermon: sacrifice, seclusion, silence, and suffering.
 

John awoke a few hours later. He was used to working through the night and was surprised he even fell asleep. He looked at the digital display on the radio and it said 7:41 a.m. He turned on the radio and tuned the dial until he heard a clear classical channel on the radio. John sat there stunned. It was the same classical piece Father Jensen played before his first sermon on the Miracle. No longer did John think of the background music in cartoons when he was a kid. Instead, he thought about the Miracle. The song ended and the next one began without any DJ identifying the name of the previous piece. John listened for a few measures and realized he knew nothing about classical music; there were no words to sing along with and he couldn’t play tambourine if his life depended on it.
 

John got up and put his coveralls on. He opted not to take a shower because he had no new clothes to change into. He grabbed his wallet off the desk and put his feet in his slippers. He rode the elevator down to the first floor and still there was no one in the lobby. Instead of heading back down the long corridor leading to the loading docks, he headed towards the front door he originally entered months ago. He opened the door to the entryway and knocked on the glass. It was Alexander standing there looking into his mobile phone. Alexander turned his head and stared at John. “Remember me, big boy. Yeah, John St. John. I made it. I am a company man now.” He said louder than he needed as he pulled his identification from his wallet and pressed it against the glass so Alexander could see it.
“Can you place the ID here in the slot?” Alexander asked as he put his phone in his pocket.
“No problem.” John replied as he slid the ID into the stainless-steel slot. “I need to check in. I am going to be on the recruiting team. I need some clothes, a room, and my money.”
Without hesitation, Alexander picked up the ID in the slot on the other side of the glass and said to John, “What you need to do is shut the fuck up.”
 

John pictured running Alexander’s ass through the band saw and throwing him in the chipper. John was not dumb; Alexander was a huge ass guy who could pound the shit out of him in a matter of seconds. John just stood there as Alexander sat down and began typing on a laptop. He asked John no questions and didn’t even bother looking up. Alexander kept on keying in information for about ten agonizing minutes in silence. John could not see the screen and had no idea what was being typed in. John stood there waiting and wondered what Alexander’s story was. Had he been a homeless loser too at some point? He couldn’t be a G-Man if he was not wearing a mask. Alexander was one of the first people any recruit met at the shelter. John couldn’t figure it out because Alexander was a relatively clean-cut guy who spent a lot of time in the gym, apparently. If he was going to the gym, how was he not interacting with females? Before John figured out Alexander, the big man stood up and addressed him.
“Your company training begins tomorrow at 9 a.m. in the 2nd floor conference room. Prior to your training, you will need to have a physical in the basement. You are scheduled for 8 a.m. Do not be late. You are assigned to room 619 for your quarters. Your key has already been switched over. The disbursing office is on the 4th floor, and you will be able to get your pay from there during the hours of 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday. You are assigned to recruiting, so you will be wearing civilian clothes as your uniform of the day. Take the elevator to the basement and head all the way to the back, and you will find several items in the bins you can choose from. The shelter is open 24 hours a day, and you may come and go as you please. Do not lose your phone, your ID, and definitely do not attempt to remove the ankle bracelet. For any reason you do lose your phone or ID, come back to the shelter immediately to report them lost or stolen. You will be providing a specimen for a drug test first thing in the morning. Any positive result, and you will be terminated. Do not go into any bars, liquor stores, or associate with anyone using or selling drugs. Do not carry anything that could be considered a weapon. Do not speak with women unless it is in the course of company business. Is there anything you do not understand?” Alexander recited the orders like a robot. He was an asshole.
John wanted to smack the giant dumb ass through the glass but just smiled and replied, “No, I think I got it.”
“You are dismissed.” Alexander replied like a stiff cop. John suspected Alexander probably got booted off the force for roughing someone up and ended up hitting the bottle, ending up on the street himself sometime in the past. He might have been a military guy, but the State Department would never pick up a meathead like this douchebag, John thought to himself without saying a word. It didn’t matter. John just wanted to get some clothes, some cash, and get out of the building and back into society, even if it was as a company man.
 

Chapter 9
 

Reflection
 

Sacrifice, seclusion, silence, and suffering; Father Jensen’s first sermon hung like a dense fog in John’s mind. Surely, it was something the whacked-out preacher had heard or read somewhere else. However, the four S’s sermon sank in deeper and deeper with each passing day. The conversation with Lester was as stunning and life-altering as the journey on the Miracle. If it were true, and John believed it was, then carrying on was a moot point. To be a soldier in an army of a religious order that carried out the most heinous acts on the weak, the desperate, and the forgotten was the exact opposite of the teachings in any religion John could think of. John was no theologian but only a Satanist, and the insane carried out bizarre rituals and missions like he had been tasked with. The sheer size of the company operation eliminated these two outliers simply by financing. The amount of money involved in the company operation could only be from a government or a gigantic religious order. It had to be something with not only vast sums of money but influence as well. Sure, there were weird occult followers and no shortage of insane people roaming around, but neither of these would be able to muster the finances or the influence to pull off something on the scale of the company’s mission.
 

John had to act. He was not sure what he had to do, but he first had to know the truth, or at least more truth than he had now. There would be no accessing any computer in the shelter. He needed to find a computer with internet access that he could be on without being seen on surveillance. That was a big risk, he thought to himself. There was also a good chance the information on Father Jensen could be limited or non-existent. It wasn’t worth the risk of walking into the library and sitting down at a laptop. The company surely would have thought out the most obvious places that offered free internet access. He had to follow Father Jensen down to the marina. If he indeed walked onto a yacht, John decided he would try and confirm the rest of the story. If that could be confirmed, then Lester was right; they were human street sweepers.
 

John noticed upon his return to the shelter that night there was never anyone milling around in the lobby, ever. It was like walking around in an empty museum once past the security at the front or back. He showed his badge, the badge got scanned and then it was surveillance via closed circuit cameras in every open space. John was convinced his room also had to have a camera or listening device somewhere hidden. This had to be the reason the place was empty except for recruits being processed and company men going straight to their rooms; everyone was under observation. Out in the streets there might be a tether from the ankle bracelet but it allowed for some semblance of privacy. This meant hours upon days upon weeks roaming around the streets in all kinds of weather conditions recruiting just to stave off consequences from the company for failure to hit the quota. John had to act fast. One day had already gone by and he had spoken to no one about the shelter. He had to know about Father Jensen’s story. For all he knew Father Jensen could still be on the Miracle or in the room next to him. He had to find out who was staying in the shelter but that would be impossible without hacking into the database or having an informant give up the information. John deemed these impossible. Even if he went to the port of Chicago he could not just walk up to the checkpoint and flash his company badge and get access. This would draw suspicion and he would be apprehended immediately. He couldn’t go door to door in the shelter either or more than likely Alexander or the huge black guy at the loading dock entrance would descend on him immediately. Then it dawned on him; he would have to come or go using one of the only two entry points to the shelter if he were indeed staying there.
 

John stood up and looked out his window. Across Franklin Street, there was a bus stop. There was a bench and a sign indicating it was a bus stop, and that was about it. John knew the GPS would be able to trace him, but was it accurate enough to tell if he was in his room or just on the other side of the street at a bus stop? If not, it was the perfect perch to look straight down the alley to see who was coming and going as well as the front door of Mariner’s Miracle. It was 7:40am and there was traffic in the street, but no one was sitting at the bus stop. John skipped the shower and shave and threw on the faded jeans, the faded thermal long-sleeved shirt, the trench coat, and work boots he selected from the clothing bins in the basement; his work uniform. He looked in his wallet lying on the nightstand. The old picture of the family was still there, and the cash inside the wallet was too. Surely, the chance of someone accessing his room while he was away, or in it, was a high probability. John stuffed the wallet in his back pocket and headed out the door.
 

John sat on the bench at the bus stop and waited. There was no one that made eye contact with him. There was no one who sat down beside him and struck up a conversation. He may as well have been the fire hydrant closer to the curb to the passersby or the traffic. This was the way the company wanted it. Too flashy, and he might attract attention. Dressed like a forgettable middle-aged white guy in second-hand clothes kept the affluent and the youth looking in other directions. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the city bus coming down Franklin Street. John jumped on the bus and sat behind the bus driver. There were a few passengers on the bus who looked like they were woken up too early or wishing they had a car. John noticed the bus schedule pamphlets sorted by different routes mounted to the divider between him and the bus driver. There were too many bus routes to determine which ones were needed to connect downtown near the marina.
 

“Which bus do I connect to if I am trying to get downtown near the beach and the marina?” John asked the driver.
“What beach or marina? There are several.” the bus driver replied without taking his eyes off the road.
“Good question. How many are there?” asked John.
“I don’t know. I drive a bus, not a boat. I would say maybe 8-10. They are along the water line though.”
John sighed. “Gee, thanks.”
“You can take bus 319 and transfer to 312 and that will take you almost all the way from 59th St. Harbor all the way up to Montrose Harbor. The harbor season is from May 1 to October 1 though. My brother works for the Port Authority of Chicago. They control all the harbors. All the boats are stored over the winter at the 31st Harbor or Montrose Harbor. You need to wait a couple more months and you will see tons of boats out there on the lake.” The bus driver said as he turned the bus around a corner.
“Yeah, I might have to do a little more homework too.” John said and sat back in his seat.
 

John’s hopes started fading. He didn’t have two months to wait. Even then, not only would the docks be secured by locked fences, it would take him weeks to locate each marina and watch it. The chance of being able to recruit anyone near a marina was probably close to zero too. He would run out of time. He should have asked Lester which marina he saw the yacht in but didn’t think of it at the time. John figured if Lester was right and Father Jensen had connections, he was surely taking a cab or even a limo for that matter. If the yacht was as big as Lester said, he could live aboard that as well. However, guys that have been out to sea want to stay on land while the ship is in port, not live on another boat. He also could have a pre-arranged hotel room taken care of and paid for by any number of entities that would disguise his name. He could stay for weeks in a room without anyone ever even asking his name. As the bus chugged along, John’s plan began to fizzle before it even started. He didn’t feel like recruiting anyone and surely didn’t want to go back and sit at a bus stop for the entire day and night. Eventually, a bus driver would notice him sitting on the bench, never getting on the bus, and calling it in. Worse, to have some company guys notice him from the shelter and become suspicious. Worse than that, Father Jensen may not have gotten a replacement on the Miracle and may be in the middle of Lake Michigan.
 

John exited the bus downtown near the river. He walked towards the lake among the cars and cabs hustling people to their jobs. John walked by a homeless guy lying against a building on a cardboard box, unconscious or dead. It was a chilly morning, and lying on concrete with only a cardboard box for insulation was brutal. John thought about waking the guy or checking to see if he was still alive, but even if he could get the guy to his feet, he would need to get him back to the shelter. It would be easy enough to throw him in a cab and drop him off at the front door. John was hesitant to wake the guy as the sidewalk was crowded. John looked around at the pedestrians walking by, and no one looked at him and, in fact, intentionally looked away from the homeless guy lying on the cardboard. John looked up the street and saw a gas station on the corner. The first thing he would need was the phone number for a cab. John decided to walk the short distance and get a cup of coffee first and see if they had a payphone. A payphone usually had a phone book attached. If the guy was alive, John would make his first call on his mobile phone to a cab company. John turned the corner and noticed a phone book dangling from a payphone in front of the gas station and smiled. He entered the convenience store and purchased a large cup of coffee. He looked at the Middle Eastern guy behind the counter and asked, “Does the payphone outside take coins or do you need to buy a card?”
In a heavily accented Indian response, the cashier replied, “You need to buy a card. Cards are $10, $20, or $50.”
John wondered how it was that no matter where the hell he went into a convenience store in any big city, it was always an Arab or Indian. “Can I use them at any payphone?”
“You can use them anywhere. You dial in a number and then the number you are calling.”
John nodded his head. Simple enough. “Give me a $10 card and this coffee.”
 

John handed the guy a $20 bill and got his change back. The plastic credit card-looking phone card had several access phone numbers to foreign countries printed on it, indicating it was probably foreigners who were buying them for the most part. John began dialing a local access number from the card when it dawned on him, and he quickly hung up. The bus driver said all the boats in the marinas were stored over the winter in the 31st Harbor or Montrose Harbor. These had to be massive buildings and surely manned with a security guard or someone at the front desk. All he really needed to know was if the boat existed. Lester was no dummy and might have gone to church, but John doubted that he would be able to know Constantine was a Catholic reference and Constantinople was where the Crusades took place; another religious reference. In short, he had to have seen them emblazoned across the fantail of a boat. If it was moored close enough to the throw a rock at it from the bike bath along the lake, like he said, it had to be visible as well.
 

John felt paranoid standing in front of the gas station at the payphone. He looked over his shoulder and saw no one paying attention to him. The GPS monitor would indicate he was at a gas station. He paid cash for the coffee and the card. The Mid-Eastern guy would forget John in the next five minutes, but the video surveillance camera would be time stamped and able to place him in the store and at the counter. The transaction receipt from the cash register would also be time stamped, and the two together would be able to verify John bought a phone card. There was no other way. If John hopped a cab to the Marina, the GPS would put him on the spot. If the story was true, this could potentially set off alarms. John dialed the number on the phone card. Once he got a dial tone, he dialed 411, and an automated operator came on the phone.
“Thank you for using Snaptel Networks. Please say the person or place you are trying to connect to.” The robo-operator asked.
 “31st Harbor. Chicago, Illinois.” John said clearly into the phone.
“That number is 312-225-6464. For an extra $1.50, I can place the call for you. Would you like me to place the call? Press 1 for yes or 2 for no.” replied the robo-voice.
John didn’t have anything to write down the number, so he pressed the number 1 on the pay phone. The phone rang twice, and an answering machine picked up. “Thank you for calling the 31st Harbor and Marina. The marina is open from May 1st through October 1st. Information regarding applications for slips, storage fees, launching, haul outs, port services, or employment can be found on the Chicago Harbor website at www.chicagoharbor.info. If you would like to speak with customer service, please press 1. If you would like to speak to boat storage, please press 2. If you would…..” John cut the robo-operator off and pressed 2.
“31st boat storage, how can I help you?” A gruff-sounding voice of an old white guy came on the phone.
“Sir, maybe you can help me out here. I am calling you from Iowa. I have been away for a while and have just returned to care for my father, who is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. I have not seen my dad in several years and now come to find out I have been given power of attorney over his estate. My dad is pretty wealthy, and I have an uncle and aunt here who say he has taken them out on a large boat in Lake Michigan from a marina in Chicago. I am trying to find out what happened to the boat because it is not here in Iowa. I am wondering if he has it stored in your storage. The name of the boat is the Constantine or Constantinople or something similar. Is there any way I can find out if the boat is there?” The bullshit rolled off John’s tongue without a hiccup.
“I am sorry about your father. We got Alzheimer’s in our family too. It is a terrible disease. As far as the boat, I got a database here I can check for current boats in storage. Let me see what comes up in current storage inventory.” The guy replied.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” John crossed his fingers.
After a few seconds of searching his database of current inventory, the man said, “I don’t know, buddy. I do have a 2011 51’ foot Sea Ray here named the Constantine, but it says it is registered to the Archdiocese of Chicago. Was your dad working for the Catholic Church?”
“No, but I am. Thank you.” John replied and hung up.
 

Time seemed to stop. John’s mind began racing. Lester was telling the truth. The company was connected to the Catholic Church. John had become a conscript in a spiritual war he not only didn’t sign up for but didn’t believe in either. Could the Church really believe they were fighting the devil for the soul of mankind by killing off the lifers, the sex offenders, and violent criminals with homeless conscripts picked up off the streets? It was bizarre. It was insane. It was also as realistic as The Rendering Team, The Box, and Father Jensen himself. John was startled by a new Volvo SUV that pulled up in front of John, and an attractive woman, a professional dressed, stepped out of the vehicle and proceeded into the gas station. As she passed, John caught the scent of her perfume. He shook his head and looked down at his boots. He was now the dirtbag too poor to even have a mobile phone in the eyes of the attractive woman. He was a potential threat to her, and although she said nothing to him, he felt ashamed. He began walking away from the gas station and back around the corner with his coffee. He needed to put some distance between himself and the payphone just in case someone was watching him. He was now scared and did not want some company guys swooping down on him in front of a gas station and pushing him into the back of a van in front of the woman. He wanted to hide, and there was nowhere to go, so he kept walking along the sidewalk towards the lake and leaving the homeless man on the cardboard behind.
 

After a few nervous minutes and a few city blocks, John began to feel safer. No one swarmed him and beat him to the ground. He was now just another blip on someone’s radar screen who was in charge of monitoring the GPS units of the company men on the streets. To the pedestrians on the sidewalk, he was invisible. John also realized that if Lester’s story was true, then Father Jensen was a pedophile scumbag who was a fake. He was a degenerate that should have been cut up and fed to the fish, not holding sermons that were neither Catholic mass nor any type of Christian religious service. He was a goddamn lunatic and had been exempted from the harsh reality of the company mission with his phony position as a spiritual leader. It was hypocrisy, and the entire mission of the company was too. John didn’t care about killing off death row prisoners and scumbags as most deserved it. However, using homeless people that were in need of compassion, counseling, and guidance was turned into slaves to carry out the most gruesome details of the company mission. This was unacceptable. John needed a plan and quickly.
 

John walked along the sidewalk deep in thought, only interrupted by sips of coffee and stops at crosswalks. This would be his life until the end of days unless he could get away. John walked by a coffee shop and smelled the fresh-baked muffins and coffee emanating from inside as a patron entered. He poured his gas station coffee out in the street and headed back towards the coffee shop. He stood in line and noticed that everyone seemed upbeat or preoccupied, staring into a laptop. The youngsters working behind the counter looked like college kids. The people in line were in their own worlds, listening to music through earbuds or staring into a smartphone. Then he heard it. The music piping in overhead played the first few notes of the classical piece Father Jensen had played. John shook his head. He felt as if he were in the cartoon now, and this piece of music was the soundtrack. The crowd moved a couple of paces forward, and John looked at the crazy names of all the different types of coffee on the menu board above and behind the counter: Steamboat Bill, The Gothic, Tennessee Tornado, etc.He just wanted coffee. The line advanced one more step, and it was John’s turn. A young woman with a tattoo running up her arm and a piercing in her nose greeted John.
“Good morning. What would you like?” She asked with a beautiful smile. John paused for a moment and looked up at the menu board. He was confused.
“I just want a large, dark coffee with cream.” John felt like a simpleton.
She smiled. “No problem. That is the Gothic. You will love it. Would you like a Danish or a muffin with that?”
“Sure.”
“Which one?”
John didn’t care; he was hungry, and she was the first female he had spoken to in a long, long time. “It doesn’t matter. You pick one.”
“OK. My favorite is the blueberry and poppy seed. Does that sound good?” she asked.
“Sounds wonderful.”
 “That will be $8.44.” She replied as she rang up the order. John thought about complaining about the price but said nothing.
“Hey, do you know what song this is playing right now?” John asked, thinking it might be way too far out of her genre.
“Yeah, that is Beethoven, Fur Elise.” She replied as she reached under the glass countertop to grab a muffin.
“Are you sure?”
“Seriously?” She looked at John as if he were stupid. “That has to be one of the most famous classical pieces ever. I am also a music major at Chicago Academy and have played piano since I was four, so maybe that is not fair.” She said over her shoulder as she poured his Gothic coffee from a large urn.
John felt like an uncultured idiot. “It sounds kind of sad.”
“It is. It wasn’t even discovered until decades after his death. He wrote the melody about a woman who left him, I think.”
John knew exactly now why the notes resonated with him. “Imagine that.”
“You have a great day.” She replied and handed John his Gothic and muffin. He stepped away and back out into the street. He retrieved the muffin from the bag and took a big bite out of it. It was delicious. He took a small swig off the hot coffee, and the Gothic was bold and far superior to the gas station coffee. John wondered why such a smart and attractive young woman would pierce her nose and get a tattoo that ran all the way up her arm. Times were changing, and he felt old.
 

John waited at the busy corner of Lake Shore Drive. He crossed over the busy street and walked through Grant Park. He walked the edge of the water along the lake and looked out over the sea. He turned to look back at the city skyline. Chicago was beautiful. John saw no boats out on the lake and proceeded to walk along the bike path south with the city to his right and the lake to his left. He was fucked. Was there even a difference between being a modern-day floating Holocaust prisoner or an invisible scumbag preying on the most vulnerable people in society? John kept walking along and felt nature calling. He had to find a place to shit. Up ahead he saw a cinder block building close to a small beach. John hoped it would be an open bathroom or changing room for beachgoers. Those always had toilets. The coffee was working its way through his system and the urgency to take a shit was going to become desperate if the building was not a public toilet or locked. John looked around and there was only one bike that was coming at him and a couple of joggers going the other way. But there was nowhere to take a shit.
 

John approached the building and as he got closer it clearly was a public changing room for the beach. He walked into the men’s bathroom and there were three stalls. The bathroom was old and had graffiti on the walls and one of the sinks was broken. He looked at the stalls and one was being used. John didn’t care and opened the stall beside the occupied one. He noticed there was toilet paper and that was all that mattered. He pulled down his pants, sat on the seat and unloaded his bowels. John felt relieved. He stared down at his boots while he finished his business and noticed the person in the stall next to him had sat a large grocery bag on the floor in the stall next to him. John thought it was probably a homeless guy with all his belongings. John sighed, wiped his ass and turned to flush the toilet. Then he heard it. It was clearly the sound of a boy that said, “Ouch.”
 

John flushed the toilet and went to the one sink not broken to wash his hands. He could hear commotion in the stall that was occupied. He wondered what could possibly be going on. John looked around for something to dry his hands with, and there was nothing. He slowly walked for the door when he clearly heard the same boyish voice say louder, “Help.” John walked back and stood directly in front of the stall. “Is everything OK in there?”
“Get the fuck out of here. I am taking a shit.” A different man’s voice said. John looked quickly just in case he missed it, but the other two stalls were empty. Then John heard someone slapping on the side wall of the toilet. John took a chance and looked through the crack. He could see the bare ass cheeks of a boy standing in the bag between the legs of someone sitting on the toilet seat. Some fucking dirtbag was molesting a kid. He had the kid standing in the bag to disguise his feet if anyone walked in and noticed four feet under the stall and would become suspicious. John ripped open the flimsy door with his hands and could not believe his eyes. On the toilet seat sat Father Jensen with his hand covering the boy’s mouth so he couldn’t scream. The boy was probably in junior high and looked terrified.
 

John wasted not a further second. He threw his remaining coffee in the face of the seated Father Jensen and grabbed the boy once Father Jensen released him instinctively to reach for his face. John grabbed the kid by the back of his neck and pulled him away from Father Jensen and pushed him behind himself. Father Jensen tried to stand up and reach for his pocket, but John lifted his boot from the ground and kicked him directly under his chin, sending him crashing backwards in the stall. John stepped into the stall and kicked him hard in the back. Father Jensen struggled to come to his feet, but it was too late. John grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head up, and sent a crushing blow to his face with his right hand. Father Jensen yelled out in pain. John dragged him out of the stall by his hair. Father Jensen collapsed on the floor, and the boy began crying as he tried to pull his pants up. He was terrified. John raised his foot and stomped his boot down hard on Father Jensen’s head, and he went silent.
“I am very sorry about this. You are OK now. You wait right here. I will be back.” John said to the young boy who was in shock. John looked out the open door of the public toilet, and there was no one along the path he could see. There were a few cars in the parking lot a few hundred yards away, but he saw no one near.
 

John returned to the unconscious Father Jensen on the floor and grabbed him by the feet and dragged him out the door. He pulled him down the steps with Father Jensen’s head banging on each of the few steps that led to the bike path. John continued to drag him over the bike path and then pushed his body over the retaining wall. John quickly jumped over the wall and pulled Father Jensen by his feet into the freezing cold water. Father Jensen was startled back to life by the cold water. John pounced on him and pulled him further away from the beach. Father Jensen began to struggle and John grabbed a hold of his wrist and bent it, trying to snap it. Father Jensen began to scream. John pulled him back as they fell underwater. They were chest high in the water. John placed his hands around Father Jensen’s throat and squeezed with every ounce of strength he had, holding him under the water. Father Jensen struggled briefly and then fell limp. John held him for a few seconds more and then released him. Father Jensen’s body never saw the surface again.
 

John turned his attention back to the boy in the restroom. He wanted to make sure he was OK. The kid would never forget such a horrific encounter, and he wanted to at least make sure he could get him to safety. John walked out of the lake, across the sand, and tried to climb the retaining wall. He looked up to get a handhold and was met by an athletic-looking guy on a bicycle who had obviously seen what had just occurred. John was terrified. This guy had no idea what had just taken place. John was trying to save the boy. Father Jensen was a fucking animal. John threw his leg over the retaining wall and noticed the guy set down his bike and began to unfasten his backpack. John thought he was reaching for a mobile phone to call the cops.
“Hey, man. This ain’t what it seems. There is a young kid in the men’s room there that was being sexually assaulted. I was trying to save him and defend myself.” John tried to explain.
“I know exactly who you are, who the boy is, and who you just drowned are. Do you have any idea who I am?” The guy stared at John as he stood up and began to walk forward.
“I have no idea who the fuck you are, and I don’t…” John was silenced mid-sentence with a single bullet right to his face. The force of the bullet launched John backwards off the wall and crashing down onto the sand, lifeless.
The guy on the bike put the gun back in the backpack, fastened the backpack, and looked down at John’s lifeless body and said, “I am the truth.” He got back on his bike and rode north on the bike path, leaving the scene without a trace.
 

The End