God Stole the Sun

It was 6 in the morning when mayor Lelland Gerrald’s black leather shoes echoed throughout the Blistering white halls of what he knew to be the Underground tunnel between his ‘Mayoral Abode’ and ‘U.S.A.F Facility 37.’ At this point, a trained ear would be able to hear the ever so slight limp that Lelland walked with, if it were not for the accompanying sounds of 14 other pairs of black leather shoes echoing through the manmade tunnel of pure light which penetrated Lellands every thought.

The first reaction to the power outage consisted of the customary steps usually made. The home was shut down and fortified and a series of questions then ensued between the Secret Service and the White House which Lelland had always assumed was akin in tone to an elderly couple flipping through the obituary, hoping to find an out of town funeral to go to in order to lighten up the mundane weekend.

One man would ask, “Has there been any unscheduled Nuclear detonations?”

Another would solemnly reply, “No.”

“Shame… Any attack on the White house?”

“No. It seems to be just a regular, normal, power outage.”

One of the benefits of being the mayor to a city that contains a secret underground federal facility, is that as long as you maintain your trustworthiness to the right people and have the ability to effectively cover up what could be many of an extravagant accident, then you didn't need to worry all that much about re-elections. Shows must still be put on of course and so fundraisers and other such events like the one that coaxed him into wearing the black suit and shoes he wore when he was pulled away from his engagement still occurred.

But the prompt for Lellands visit with the eggheads in Facility 37 still confused him as it was he who was requested. Power outages were not excessively common but often occurred due to the overestimation by the facility of the city's power grid. Often these problems could be solved on their own and the need for his arrival wasn't necessary or even asked until now.

Lelland had then thought that he might try to pry a straw of information from the leader of the cluster of sunglasses and crewcuts. But as he was to open his mouth his body met with the grey iron set of doors that broke the consistency of the white tunnel. The iron doors which would lead further into the heart of the facility. As soon as the standard security obligations were made: passwords, retinal scans, and the sorts, (much too Lellands smeared at obligations, no secret handshakes) the doors crept open with a mechanical grind as they scraped along the white concrete floor which starkly crossed into brown tiles upon entrance into the facility. As they had just gone through one of the artery tunnels the entrance opened up into another hallway. Still a hallway which exhibited the bustling of people, but a hallway that reminded Lelland of just how unimportant he really was. Walking down the hallway, his entourage of clandestine security was often bumped into by engineers and scientists heads deep into a stack of paper.

It took only a while for the hallway to move yet again through another pair of Iron doors, from the brown tiles of budget cuts to the pristine oak planks and birch walls of the lavished what could only be described as the “head” portion of the facility. Arriving at the door titled Meeting room 144B (which door to enter was not told to him but instead his assumption was built on the observance of the sudden halt of the agents outside this particular door) he knocked thrice.

Knocking on the door interrupted whatever frenzied discussion was occurring as silence quickly befell amongst the room. This also in turn was interrupted as one gentleman who Lelland recognized as his main correspondent said, “Come in.”

The room itself was built for its purpose, it looked as if it neatly fit the wooden desk now turned white with the obscene amount of paper piled onto it, and it fit the chairs that all were occupied surrounding the table as well. Each seat held a man with various amounting patterns of the same blue tie, combed back hair to no hair, but yet all had ruffled jackets as if they had been here for hours on end. The only chair empty was the one next to Lellands correspondent, Benjamin Jeffrey. Benjamin was a fairly unassuming fellow, if he told you he worked at a top secret underground facility and if such a job were normalized to the extent where the immediate reaction wasn't of shock you would be surprised still that this man held such a position. But quickly you'd begin to see it as oddly fitting. Benjamin had cold neutral black eyes that asked of northing nor could care less of anything, and a droopy face that one could mistake as tempered sadness but on second reflection would best be considered as exhibiting sternness.

Unlike most other times however Benjamin did not start with formalities. He remained seated and gestured impatiently for Lelland to sit. Benjamin hesitated to start the conversation signalling in a fashion to Lelland that he did not know where to begin. So naturally Lelland asked the question occupying his mind.

“What’s going on?”

Benjamin replied, “Frankly Lelland… I'm just going to say it… The suns missing, presumed stolen.”

Silence ensued. Then Lelland threw his head back in laughter prompting most in the room even the stern Benjamin to do the same. Here sat one of the most experienced and intelligent room in America, and their concern that prompted Lellands arrival following a power outage was for a silly prank. Lelland soon regained his composure and the room became quieter, but as it became quieter the room became more daunting.

Confused Lelland asked, “Okay, Okay, but why am I really down here? I have a party to get back to, what's so concerning it prompted me to come all the way down here?”

Benjamin again said sternly with the remnant of a grin still, 

“Lelland. I'm not kidding. The suns really missing.``

“What… What do you mean - the suns missing?” replied Lelland.

“I mean the Sun... It's Gone.”

“How is it Gone? How could the sun just be gone!”

Benjamin rested his arm on the table to hold his head which held the expression of someone who had just given up on understanding, and he said,

“We think some celestial being akin to our understanding of a ‘God’ stole it on the basis: of a dare.”

Lelland and the room erupted in laughter at the end of that sentence as Benjamin simply starred with a smile at Lelland.

“Okay, if the Sun is gone, how in the world do we know it was stolen on the basis of a dare, how would we even disconcern a motive.” said Lelland.

Benjamin, still maintaining eye contact, pointed to a stack of paper.

As Lelland awkwardly sprawled his body among the table to reach the stack of papers he sat back down with what looked to be 20 pages or so labeled, “Transcript between two other worldly divine beings. Gathered by sensory recording equipment on Earth.” Lelland then flipped through the transcript with each page reaffirming that yes, somehow, someway, for some reason, the sun was really stolen by a cosmic being. And with each page Lelland would sit back, look up to the white ceiling, and let out a giggle before returning to the collection of transcripts in his hand. When he had finished reading he set the papers down on the spot on the table in front of him. It took Lelland approximately 15 minutes before he said in a shaking voice to Benjamin,

“I-Is this connected to the power outage?”

“Yes it is.”

“How?”

“We get our energy from a reactor in New York.”

“...So?”

“So, they're three hours ahead of us.” Benjamin looked at his watch.

“Over there it's around 9:30 in the morning. They haven't seen the sun come up.”

“...”

“...None of them showed up to work today.”

God Stole the Sun.

By David Menchin