Mind Plague by Vincent L Scarsella

Author:Vincent L Scarsella [Scarsella, Vincent L]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781989414101
Publisher: Digital Science Fiction, an imprint of Digital Fiction Publishing Corp.
Published: 2019-05-10T22:00:00+00:00

Thirty-One

The Commander of the Faithful

Half an hour later, the rear compartment of the box truck was jammed with boxes containing food and supplies taken from Becker’s Mart. The commander blew a whistle, and Strock followed along with the other inmate blanks, taking a spot at the end of a single line at the back of the truck. Standing before them with a sour expression, the commander said, “I know this is a waste of time, but let’s all state the friggin sha-had-duh.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to them, and Strock got the impression that the commander served Abu al-Shahab only out of self-preservation and had no faith in their creed.

The shahada, as Strock would later learn, was a Muslim’s declaration of faith. He also would come to learn that the inmate blanks were required to repeat it regularly before and after every mission or act of service, and several other times during the day. Strock decided it must be one of many brainwashing techniques used by Shahab like those used by Brother Paul with the monk-blanks back at St. Bart’s.

“So, let us begin,” the commander said.

As he and the other blanks started the shahada chant, Strock lip-synced along with them.

“Ajh shaduanlaa ilaha illa Allah, wa ash shadu anna Mohammadar Rasul Allah.” Or, in English, “I bear witness that there is no object of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Mohammed is the Messenger of Allah.”

Immediately following the chant, the commander pointed to Strock and two of the inmate blanks, and said, “You three, in back.” Nodding to the other four blanks down the line, he added, “The rest of you, up with me.”

The two inmate blanks standing next to Strock seemed to understand and immediately pulled themselves up onto the narrow opening along the truck’s rear compartment at the edge of the boxes of supplies. Grabbing onto the knife hidden in the sleeves of his jumpsuit, careful to not cut himself, Strock lifted himself up after them. Once up there, he followed along as the two inmate blanks slid down along the boxes behind them and sat, bending their legs under their haunches. At the same time, the commander rolled down the back door and cranked it shut, thrusting Strock and the two inmate blanks into pitch darkness. Strock accepted that it was going to be a long, uncomfortable ride back to the prison.

As the three-motorcycle escort gurgled to life and started in a line out of the Becker’s Mart parking lot, the truck’s engine sputtered to a start and lurched forward. Strock bounced and rolled with the two inmate blanks as the truck lumbered out of the parking lot and took a left turn onto Main Street. Five minutes later, he was pulled sideways with the blanks as the truck negotiated the wide curve of the entrance ramp onto the southbound lanes of Interstate 99.

As the commander shifted gears and the truck grudgingly reached cruising speed, Strock tried adjusting himself to get into a more comfortable position.

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