Macromal

His commute to the university was uneventful. Traffic was unusually light. Conspicuously light, actually. Several times during the drive, he even thought that perhaps it was a holiday. "Did I get my days mixed up," he second guessed himself.

The spring morning was clear and mild. After many years of driving through rickety city streets and feeling assaulted by the alienating mendacity that he encountered on the airwaves, Charles became fond of listening to audio books. This eased the monotony of getting to work. Charles has not listened to his car radio in over two decades. He found the content and personalities that populate contemporary radio a bore, at best.

That morning, it was a collection of detective short stories. He particularly relished Arthur Conan's Doyle's "The Dying Policeman" and the wry humor of Dexter Collin's very short story, "The Burglar."

Walking from his office in O'Malley Hall, he went past the library. Charles noticed a very long and wide contrail that stretched from east to west. He stopped walking. The thing was so large that it was hard to figure where it began and ended. Rather than turning bulbous some distance from the source of its creation, as these artificial clouds do when beginning to break up, this contrail was sharp and symmetrical throughout. There were no airplanes anywhere in sight. The contrail appeared high in the sky and dipped below the western horizon. This was also odd.

Charles continued to walk a short distance, and then, as he had done for many years, sat on a bench in the quad and watched the students. He fancied that he could tell much about what goes on in people's heads by observing their manner of dress, behavior, and the language they use. "How else are we to know anything about people?" he always said. "Certainly not by taking seriously what the vast majority of them say."

That morning only a handful of students made their way to and from class. Charles said hello to a student he remembered from a previous semester. The young man stared at Charles and walked by slowly, almost in a choreographed manner. It was 9:00 a.m. Charles sat on the bench for about half an hour. He glanced at the sky. The contrail remained the same size.

"That is peculiar," he thought.

He kept his gaze turned to the sky for several minutes. The contrail did not show signs of breaking up. He found it strange that there were no airplanes visible; the university is right under the glide path of the nearby international airport. The strong breeze, being from due east, meant that airplanes would be landing to the west. Charles remained sitting on the bench, looking at the students go by and watching the sky, until about 9:15 a.m., when he started to walk to class, some thirty yards away. The breeze had gotten noticeably colder.

Placing his briefcase on the shiny white table next to the podium, Charles took out Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and a folder with his class notes. Of a class of twenty-two, there was only one female student sitting in the back row.

"It must be a holiday," Charles joked.

The student looked at him with a blank stare, her glance seemingly focused on some object behind him.

"Well, let us begin by saying that…" Charles was interrupted by three students that walked in late.

"Welcome. That makes five of us," he said jovially.

None of the three responded. They merely gawked at him and walked deliberately to the back row. Charles waited for them to sit. They sat next to the young woman. As he began to lecture, Charles noticed that the four students looked at each other more than they paid attention to him. They looked at each other in a mesmerized manner. This gave Charles the strange impression that they were somehow silently communicating with each other.

Charles was convinced that the students he had taught in recent years had taken moral/spiritual zombiefication to new heights. These four actually brought out goose bumps on his skin. There was something eerie about their empty stares that rubbed Charles as worrisome.

"On page 14, you will see that the albatross was a good omen; a benign being. Yet how many of the men on the ship could distinguish good from evil?" Charles then read a short passage from the work:

After about twenty-five minutes of lecturing without eliciting interest, questions or even a glance from the students, Charles realized that he was wasting his time.

"Alright, if there are no questions, I think we will end class early today."

The students walked out of the classroom in single file. Charles watched them curiously.

"Good Morning, Susan," Charles said to the department secretary.

"Good morning Dr. Murray. Good to see you. I wasn't sure if you were coming in today."

"Where are all the others?" he asked, standing in front of her office door.

"Strange day, isn't? There must be a really bad bug out. Believe it or not, everyone besides you called in sick. What are the odds of that? Their classes have been cancelled," the charismatic sixty-something year old secretary informed him.

"Everyone is sick?"

"Yes. It must be a pretty nasty flu going around. I hear that the campus is virtually empty. A great number of students are sick. Not you, though. Remember how I've often told you that the true-blue rarely get sick," she joked.

"Thank you, Susan," Charles said laughing and walking to the water fountain.

"I won't forget to give thanks on Sunday."

"Oh, Dr. Murray, I almost forgot to tell. You have a message. Here," the secretary walked over and handed him a sheet of paper.

Charles took the note: 'Gusiflax Agrimur.' Then, looking at the secretary, he asked: "What did this person say? I don't recognize this name."

"He just asked for you. He didn't leave a telephone number. I asked him, but he insisted that he would contact you later. That was all."

Charles sat in his office and looked out onto a grassy area where students congregate on sunny days. "Everyone is ill…" he thought. He saw two students sitting on a bench. "Yes, what is the likelihood of that?" He thought, echoing the secretary's earlier words.

The two students stared at the sky. Looking up, Charles saw that the contrail had not dissipated. In fact, it looked the same as when he first noticed it. It looked as if glued to the blue background.

His office telephone rang.

"Hello. Yes." No one answered and he hung up.

Charles decided to go and talk to the two students on the bench.

Standing next to the students, he looked up at the sky.

"What is it?" Charles asked.

They continued to stare.

"It looks like a large airplane contrail, doesn't it?" Charles asked.

The female student looked at Charles and shook her head but did not speak.

"What else can it be?" Charles asked, feeling frustrated."

"It's him," the male student uttered in a low voice.

"Who?" Charles asked.

"Macromal."

"Macro…?" Charles began to ask but was interrupted by the male student.

"Macromal. He's permanently with us now."

"Who is he?" Charles continued to probe.

"We must go, Josh." The female student said getting up. "Come," she said to the young man, who was beginning to stand.

Charles watched the two students walk away. They kept looking to the sky.

Back in his office, Charles read an e-mail that came in several minutes earlier: "Dr. Murray, I have waited a long time to come into your presence. Far I have traveled to meet you in the flesh. I want to talk to you about carrying that cross... that albatross that you are so fond of in the story." The e-mail was from someone named Gusiflax Agrimur.

Somewhat distraught, Charles went home. The strange events of the day were taking their toll on him. The highway and streets that he drove on were deserted. Standing at a red light on a desolate street near his house, Charles looked out of the corner of his eye at the three occupants in the car next to him. They were staring at him. When the light turned green, the driver drove very slowly. Charles watched them in his rearview mirror until they lagged several blocks behind. He kept looking back and sped up.

Driving up to his house, Charles saw a neighbor several houses from his standing on the lawn. He walked up to the man. The neighbor, whom Charles had gotten to know a little, raised his hand and pointed to the sky. The contrail was exactly as it had been early that morning, when Charles first noticed it.

"What is it, Bill? I saw it this morning?" Charles asked. "It doesn't look like it has changed."

"It's not good, Charles. Something... I haven't lost my instinct for danger yet... Something is happening, Charles. Have you noticed the disappearance of people? Where's everybody," the man said walking away: "I went to the supermarket this morning and they had a skeleton crew working. The cashier... she told me most of the employees called in sick," the man said hysterically. "Where's everybody, Charles? I need to get inside the house."

Charles called his wife at work and asked her to come home, but before he could convince her, she said she was ready to leave anyway. She told him she was scared to be in a semi deserted office building. "People," she went on, "they're all acting really strange. She said she no longer recognized them."

One television network said that there was some kind of influenza-type strain going around that made people drop dead. Another emphasized that a vast number of people "simply vanished." Charles and his wife watched the news in amazement.

Changing the channels desperately, trying to make sense of current conditions, Charles settled on a report that said that Catholic churches worldwide were being desecrated. The Archbishop of Newark, New Jersey was quoted: "We are currently in the throes of satanic influence. This is evident in the sleepwalking condition of most of the remainder of the world's population. Murder and cannibalism of Christians is widespread..." At that point, the power went out in Charles' house. Charles looked at his wife in total dismay.

"Charles, this can't be real? Can't it?" his wife asked with a blank look on her face.

"I don't know, Margaret. I guess what we witnessed out there today confirms what we just heard on the news."

Looking out to the street, Charles saw that the neighborhood was dark. He walked outside and looked around. He went to the middle of the street and looked in all directions. Darkness engulfed him. Margaret came out to the yard.

"Charles, please come inside. It's not safe."

"I'm coming. I just want to see if there are any neighbors out."

Charles could not see the glow of city lights in the sky in any direction he turned.

"I think the power outage is pretty widespread, Margaret."

"Come inside. Let's listen to the radio," Margaret urged him, turning to walk into the house.

At that moment strange sounds could be heard in the distance.

"Hear that?" Charles asked.

"Yes. What is it?'

"Listen. Sounds like wailing."

"I don't like it, Charles. Please, come inside."

"I can't tell what direction it's coming from. Sounds like it's coming from all directions, " Charles said, ignoring Margaret's supplication. Then, a cold wind came up the street. The wailing intensified. The front door of the house slammed shut. Margaret let out a scream.

Charles hurried up the walkway and opened the door. Once inside, he went for his portable radio, which he kept in a nearby drawer. They both sat on the couch and tried to find a station that was transmitting. Charles stopped turning the dial after coming across an AM station that could be heard with interference.

"What is it, Charles? What's happening?"

"I don't know. But I've seen enough to know things are not right."

"Listen. The wailing, it's all around the house," Margaret said.

The radio commentator said they were operating using a generator, and didn't know how long they could remind on the air. Then, a guttural voice took over the broadcast:

"Charles, are you and the misses enjoying the darkness?" The voice said mockingly.

Margaret was frightened. She began weeping. She hugged her husband.

"Oh, come now. Be romantic. Enjoy the darkness. Light is overrated, don't you think?" Perhaps we should be formally introduced."

The front door of the house burst open. A tall beastly figure holding a bloodstained sword appeared. Charles stood holding a baseball bat.

"Sit down, Charles. This is no time for games," the figure said forcefully.

Charles felt faint and sat down on the couch. His heart was racing. "What do you want from us?"

"Want? What is the only thing worth having from mere mortals, Charles? Tell me about that albatross that weighs so heavy on the righteous, professor. I do enjoy that story, I must say. Death. Pangs of conscience. Fear of the unknown. You do a fine job teaching it. But you don't really think your students get it, do you, professor? I truly admire your Doctor Faustus, though. Now, there's a man who didn't waste his life in the pursuit of righteousness. He figured out the meaning of life from early on," the figure laughed.

"Come to think of it," he continued, "he only tapped the tip of the iceberg. Charles, I own the wretched souls who've opted not to waste their lives in a waiting game. They already have their salvation. Now, do you feel you know me better? No need to be coy, Charles, I'm always closer than anyone can ever suspect. I do like human history... From the beginning; I've owned entire races of your puny souls."

Charles tried standing again. He began to swing the bat.

"Please, sit down, old man. You're never too old to learn a new trick. You don't want the old lady to suffer, do you?"

Charles' knees buckled and he fell back onto the couch. Margaret began holding her neck, like something was choking her.

"Let her go!" Charles ordered.

"It's the albatross, old man. One would think that literature would have taught you something about..."

"Leave her alone!" Charles shouted. "What do you want from us?" he asked, trying to stand but was immediately slammed down unto the sofa.

"You saw the sky this morning. Not a bad entry, was it Charlie? In my line of work, theater and spectacle are king. Dazzle them, Charlie, and they will love you. Reality is that I'm always with you people. The name is Gusiflax Agrimur. My people call me Macromal."

"So, patience is a virtue, even for you."

"Especially for me. Good things come to those who bid their time, Charlie. Inertia does the rest."

"If you have always been around, why the dramatic entrance now?"

"Some people say we must cultivate our garden. Charlie, we must bid our time. All in good time. When better than when the garden is in full bloom and its fruits have been squandered? I am now seasoned in the ways of the flesh. No longer do I suffer the pangs of an impetuous angelic youngster. Once you crack an egg, few will ever recognize it for what it is. I've turned into a connoisseur of the flesh; I who have never been embodied."

"Get out of our home. We have nothing to offer you."

"That's the problem with you righteous ones, Charlie; you're like young children, always keeping the fire of innocence lit. Let it go, old man. Let it go. Be like the others. Stop fighting it, Charlie. You can't keep up your romantic innocence your whole life. Learn to be of the world, of the here and now, Charlie. Incidentally, did you miss your dear students today, professor? Where do you think the vast number of your worldly beings went, you mindless dreamer? I think of you people as my temporal agents."

Charles watched Margaret crying.

"Look at you. You're so good together. Till death do us part. I have to say, I do enjoy a burning rapport with the young. Like nuclear fission, they possess so much explosive, expansive potential for creative re-generation. This wasn't always the case, though. No, no. I've always preferred the old and cynical; those burnt out souls willing to make a deal with me in exchange for the fruits of silky matter."

Margaret was bent over with abdominal pain.

"There is great beauty and nobility in physical pain, isn't there, Charlie? That exquisite inner core, the soul, which is the ultimate price; a joy to drive it into the muck. That dirty, timeless soil; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Charlie. Merde embulante, that's what you all are. One of my agent-philosphes got it right when he referred to the human race as a 'useless passion.' Oh, so exquisite and beautiful; baneful neurosis articulated in French: the anarchic ethics of negation, creative defecation of the self, a penchant for nothingness, putrefaction of innocence, the destruction of consciousness. What exalted joy, my dear professor. What joy."

Charles took Margaret in his arms. She writhed in pain.

"Leave her, you savage beast. You don't need us, Charles demanded."

His pleading was ignored: "Oh, you are so naive, Charlie. There you go, behaving like a child again. I've worked my fingers to the bone to serve your dreams of distributive justice. I bow to your infelicity; the core of fleshy beings. Resentful, imperfect beings, you are. You've been lied to, Charlie. There is nothing divine about you, maggot-breeding meat. All the same, I won't hold this against you. I, too, refuse to be second fiddle to any master. By the way, Charlie, I have a heartfelt fondness for that enfant terrible, crooked-eye, Sartre. Such hootzpa: 'L'homme est une passion inutie.' Such intellectual pazazz," the figure spat. "I couldn't have said it better myself." Gusiflax let out a cynical laugh. "Charlie, nothing will come of nothing, speak again. Bravo!"

"Why have you come to us? You must know that my wife and I are content with our imperfection."

"But you can have so much more, Charlie. Glance outside your window, professor."

Charles looked outside his picture window. The street was abysmally dark.

"Darkness. I've seen darkness many times before," Charles said, angrily.

"Not just any darkness, Charlie. Look closer. What did one of your great writers call it, darkness visible? This is darkness fueled by the residue of human souls. The glow is magnificent, isn't it?"

The street grew brighter, until it seemed like there was a spotlight hovering above.

Charles saw people slowly walking by; their deliberate manner resembling gutted, cinematic zombies.

"Look at them. My pride come to flesh, professor."

The people looked at Charles.

"Recognize any?" Gusiflax laughed.

Charles saw present and past students; other people he had worked with. He saw acquaintances, familiar faces that he had forgotten he once knew. They were placed on display for him."

"Practical people, they. They fancied themselves mere objects in life, and now..."

"What does this have to do with Margaret and me?" Charles interrupted.

"I am merely answering some of your eternal quips, professor. Lifelong questions resolved. That's all. I thought you were curious. No more need for abstractions, professor. You should be thankful."

"Not curious enough. You said so yourself in so many words."

"Yes, but look at their ease of movement, their peaceful countenance; no worries there. In death as in life, Charlie, everything we get, we must bargain for. Think of me as a clearinghouse for disgruntled existence. You bring me your heaviness, your existential gripes, and I make your soul a clean slate. Ex nihilo nihil fit, Charlie. Tragedy is... we can't harbor existential inquietude in a world of mere matter. Matter is a lonely proposition, don't you think? How many of you suspect this? This is where you and your lovely wife come in."

"I can't help you. I'm a lowly maggot-spewing worm. You said so yourself."

"Maggot-breeding..."

"Please leave. You can never have a place in our lives," Charles answered, opening up the top bottom of his shirt and taking out a crucifix."

"What is that thing? Put it away. I merely want to show you the alternative to your measly life. Put it away," Gusiflax said taking a step backwards.

Charles then got up and walked to the window, emboldened; Margaret followed him.

"Put that thing away. You will startle my people."

"Gusiflax, you must leave now," Charles ordered, putting his right hand to his chest.

"I am always nearby, Charles. You can never evade my presence or that of my loyal people. I am the arbiter of human history."

Charles waved his flashlight around the interior of the house, and saw the house was filled with what looked like minuscule demons walking around and clinging to the walls and ceiling.

"Aren't you embarrassed to be in need of so many helpers?"

"On the contrary. They've come of their own accord. They are proud volunteers. They sought me. Granted, some of them are stupid little things; squid, merely suctioning themselves to the living. Some of them are jokesters, mere pranksters who take great delight in rearranging your furniture; poor beings incapable of self-reflection. They have a cumulative effect on people's ability to live a carefree existence, though. They do their job well. Haven't you felt them all around you, Charlie?"

"Enlightening, aren't they. I like how they shy away from the light."

"They have their peace of mind. Do you? Tell me, where are your children and grandchildren as we speak? Can you be certain that they are out of harm's way? Charles, I offer you the blueprints for that elusive material distributive justice that you people so desperately seek."

Charles pointed the flashlight at the deformed faces of the dwarf demons. They squirmed and made wailing sounds. He then pointed the light at the line of people walking by in the street. They did not react."

"Can't touch them, Charlie. Not until they are fully initiated in the ways of total darkness, like my more accomplished resident helpers, here," Gusiflax said directing his sight to the demons in the house. "My people are loyal."

"Your people are zombies."

"Their loyalty lies in their initial choice, Charlie."

"We can't count on people."

"Oh, but you are so ignorant, Charlie. With my people, I can. Their devotion is limitless. You see, Charlie, the absence of those phantom virtues that you guard so dearly, that is the strength of my people."

"You can't hurt us," Charles said.

"I came to demonstrate my power... and influence. Either way, Charlie, you and the misses will have to deal with me and my people... I'm patient. The worldly realm is mine to enjoy."

"Good people have to deal with you every day."

"I'm glad you recognize it. Only now, virtuous pigs like you and the misses will be shown no more mercy. I will return you to the primal muck that you refuse to accept."

"Not us. We've always known you to be part of the world. Ironically, it is your people who deny your existence."

At that moment a bright blue/white light approached from the back of the house. The little demons that clung to the walls and ceiling began wailing uncontrollable, and scurried around. They screeched in fear. Gusiflax took two steps backwards, never taking his big, reds eyes from the light. The front door, which had been closed, now burst open. Gusiflax ran out to the street. He commanded the zombies that paraded in front of the house to flee.

The light came forward, through the dining room, and into the living room, where Charles and Margaret stood. The luminous figure stopped briefly. Charles and Margaret bowed and smiled, their countenance now one of inner peace. The luminous figure walked out of the door. As it did, the zombie demons began to vanish into the darkness. Gusiflax followed them. He could be heard saying: It has only just begun, Charlie. I will return. I will..."

Following Gusiflax in the street, four horses and their riders galloped past the luminous figure. The rider of the white horse stopped abruptly, stared at Charles, and said:

"You are living the residue." He then raced to meet up with the others.

The night was still once again. A warm breeze came in through the open door. Charles hugged his wife momentarily. He then went and closed the door.

THE END

Bio: Pedro Blas González is professor of Philosophy at Barry University, Miami Shores, Florida. He is the author of a number of non-fiction books, including Human Existence as Radical Reality: Ortega y Gasset’s Philosophy of Subjectivity (Paragon House), Essays in Subjectivity, Individuality and Autonomy, (Algora Publishing), Ortega’s the ‘Revolt of the Masses’ and the Triumph of the New Man (Algora Publishing), Unamuno: A Lyrical Essay (Floricanto Press), and the novel Dreaming in the Cathedral (Floricanto Press). His most recent appearance in Aphelion was "The Horticulturalist", in the July 2012 edition.

E-mail: Pedro Blas Gonzalez

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