The Movement

By Cameron Ruff

Troy Duckworth is a successful businessman whose random act of charity turns him into the monster he once despised. With the diehard effort of a dangerous homeless man, Troy rediscovers his genius mind, tragic childhood, and the unstoppable revolution he helps create. Undergo the adventures, adversity, and twists endured by Mr. Duckworth, as he is known by The Movement's vanguard and masses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312537668

Book preview

The Movement

The Movement

By Cameron Ruff

Dedications

In loving memory of

Aunt Nada The GreatDo-Dootz Ehle

The Movement

Troy Duckworth is a successful businessman whose random act of charity turns him into the monster he once despised. With the diehard effort of a dangerous homeless man, Troy rediscovers his genius mind, tragic childhood, and the unstoppable revolution he helps create. Undergo the adventures, adversity, and twists endured by Mr. Duckworth, as he is known by The Movement's vanguard and masses.

Chapter One

It was a cold December evening in New York City. Busy with bright lights and life, the slushy sidewalks flowed with businessmen and women scurrying home from work. On the corner of East Main Street, an old rugged man donned his usual oversized hooded sweatshirt and patchy blue jeans, quietly huddled against the brick wall as the flux of home-goers ignored him, walking by without a single look in his direction.

A middle-aged man in a black, striped business suit took notice of the old homeless figure from across the street and approached him with haste under long, loud breaths. White puffs of warm fog ballooned from his mouth in the frigid air. The old man sat motionless; the middle-aged businessman glanced at the sorrow man’s long silver hair and beard shimmering in the moonlight, his deep face wrinkles hiding underneath his large droopy hood like a monk in a long prayer. The old man held a small white sign gripped tightly in his frozen fingers, as if it were his last worthy possession worth clinging to. In bold red print the sign read:

THE MOVEMENT WILL RISE AGAIN.

The middle-aged businessman, calming his breath, stopped in front of the old man, shook his head in pity, and flipped a shiny gold coin into the old man’s lap before merging back in with the constant flow of businessmen hurrying home to loved ones before the holidays.

Abruptly, the middle-aged businessman reappeared from the moving train of fancy suits with an intensified rush, flailing his arms through the air. He once again stopped in front of the old homeless man and pointed at him, screaming at the top of his lungs in a raspy voice fused with adrenaline.

You must go! I can’t stand to see you life this on the streets every day! I don’t ever want to see you here again, you filthy, worthless scum! You stain this nation, this civilization! Go! Go now! he roared.

Again, the constant motion of suited men ignored the outlandish scene while the middle-aged businessman spit his angry words at the unresponsive old man. He began to pant, winded from his pent-up, sudden burst of electric anger.

The old man continued to look down at the wet, slushy pavement, as if he were frozen in place like the icicles hanging from the awning above him. After some deep thought in planning a response, the old man silently arose as if from the dead. His body cracked at every movable joint. His mouth grunted out white clouds as he stood. Standing, the old man revealed his daunting height and true age.

The old man began to walk, his joints still cracking, against the current of oncoming businessmen. The businessmen seemed undisturbed other than ricocheting off the invisible wall of stench that parted the onrushing crowd, equal on each side of the wide, sloppy sidewalk.

The two men proceeded in opposite directions, lengthening their distance from each other while the old man repeatedly flipped his coin into the icy thin air and back into his palm. The old man’s gimping walk completely contrasted that of the middle-aged businessman’s confident, furious strut.

Along with his new coin, the old man carried the small white sign in his opposite hand, its writing facing the buildings’ windows and walls.

************

The following morning, the middle-aged businessman awoke before his family to fetch the Saturday morning newspaper from his front porch. The snow descended peacefully onto the soft, white-powdered ground. The heavy snow blanket quieted the sounds of the mail truck, which passed as soon as he had opened his wreath-decorated front door to see the Saturday newspaper bundle, with a slim package securely wrapped beside it and correctly addressed to:

TROY DUCKWORTH.

Surprised, Troy grinned and bent over to pick up his newspaper and gift.

Unsure of whom the gift may be from and every bit astonished, Troy placed the mysterious package on the marble countertop in the kitchen, taking his seat with a hot cup of coffee. He tore at the package’s wrapping ruthlessly, digging towards his gift. His heart and jaw dropped at the site of it.

The small white sign that Troy saw the old homeless man holding the previous night on his walk down East Main Street had made its way into Troy’s home. Attached to the back of the sign were a note and a thin stack of one hundred dollar bills. Startled, Troy flipped through the stack of money and read the laconic note:

CENTRAL PARK BENCH. NOON.

Troy immediately disposed of the sign, tossing it into the crackling fireplace, then returned to flip through the stack of bills and stashed the folded note into his bathrobe’s deep pocket. Confused, stunned, and slightly terrified, Troy sat down on a kitchen barstool in silent amazement, holding his forehead in hands, elbows posted on the countertop, with a look resembling that of a philosopher who was about to meet his fate.

*********

Troy felt queasy about the meeting with the old man; yet he knew he had to go to satisfy his curiosity over whom this old man was.

Why did he send this sign and money? How did he know where I lived? wondered Troy.

The stack of money the old man sent with the sign confused Troy.

Why, or how, did the old man sit on the sidewalk holding that sign every day? Why did he dress like a bum? Where did he get that kind of money? thought Troy.

Perplexed, many questions raced through Troy’s mind as he stepped out of the shower. His wife had just begun to wake up at half past ten in the morning.

Where are you going today, babe? she asked in a tired, groggy voice.

Just to run a few errands, he replied quickly.

Oh. What do you need to do? she asked.

Just to pick up a few things and then stop by my office, lied Troy.

Mkay, she said, not thinking about his answer.

She leaned over and grabbed her book on the nightstand next to the bed.

Troy looked across the room to make sure his wife was not looking. He went into the closet and reached up to the top shelf, grabbing his gun case. Quietly opening the case, he checked the safety and tucked the small handgun snug into his waistband, his long pea coat providing a thick blanket, easily concealing the gun. Troy walked over to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.

I’ll be back in a couple hours. I love you, he said. 

He walked out the door to head to Central Park a little early to further ponder the possibilities of the odd meeting with the mysterious old man.

The peaceful walk through Central Park provided the perfect atmosphere for Troy’s imagination. Dozens of thoughts, possibilities, and scenarios ran through his mind. Some of the imaginations ended poorly—with the old man revealing himself as Troy’s long lost father. Another ended gloriously, with Troy learning that he had inherited a large amount of wealth from the old man. One ended with the old man testing Troy’s character, to see if he would return the money without being asked to. None of these imaginative outcomes seemed reality, however.

Returning his mind to reality, Troy sat down on the bench that he assumed the old man meant by the Central Park Bench. He checked his watch—11:58 a.m. He looked around and observed the serene surroundings. Squirrels scampered silently up the tall pine trees as the snow parachuted from the sky.  Awaiting the old man’s arrival, Troy checked his watch once again.

Exactly at noon, Troy heard the old man’s shuffling feet coming from behind him. Instead of his usual bum attire, the old man dressed in black slacks and a charcoal pea coat, grey scarf and black cap. He carried a cane, and his silver hair and beard glistened in the snow’s crystalline brightness. His thin lips, grey eyes, and lantern jaw showed his true age.

Troy stood up quickly and shouted at the old man in his manufactured, deep voice to intimidate him.

What is this about? What do you want from me? growled Troy.

The old man ignored Troy’s questions, walking to the bench where Troy had sat a moment ago. The old man let out a long, tiresome sigh. Troy waited for a reply with his hands out of his pockets, ready to grab his concealed gun from his waistband. Despite the bitter temperature, Troy began to sweat from his active nerves and adrenaline pulsing throughout his body.

The old man’s head quickly snapped up from the ground, his cold eyes beaming directly at Troy’s as if the old man was trying to read Troy’s mind.

You didn’t bring my sign, did you? asked the old man.

Intimidated, Troy took a step backwards.

No, I burned it before my wife saw it. Why did you send it to me? What…what does that even mean? How do you know where I live? he said.

The old man chuckled an ageless laugh and leaned back on the bench, both hands posted out in front of him on his cane, piercing the frosty earth between his large black boots.

None of that matters now, Troy, he laughed. I sent you that sign because I know how people work, how they think, how they truly act on the inside and how they resist those inner thoughts to prevent their escape and effect on their outside lives, which ordinary people never suspect. I know what you believe in and I know what you used to support, and still do. But you possess a fierce outside resistance that has infiltrated your mind and has convinced you to believe that you no longer remember your contributions to The Movement. But you and I know the pure truth. You’re not fooling me or your true inner self, Troy.

Troy’s nerves continued to rattle his thought process. The old man acted as if he knew, it seemed, everything about Troy. That is, everything that Troy didn’t know about himself.

I…I…I don’t know…who you are or…or what you’re trying to make of this, stuttered Troy, proceeding with more questions through a stammering pant. Look, who…who are you? What do you…what do you want from…from me?

I don’t want anything from you except your truest beliefs, Troy. All I want is the truth, he stood firm.

Exactly what…what is it that…that you…you want to…to know? asked Troy.

I want to know how you were the only one who escaped the killings. How you were the only one from the inside who didn’t get persecuted; who didn’t get caught; who didn’t get punished for his beliefs or actions—the same ones that we embraced in every aspect of our lives. The beliefs that would have changed the world for the betterment of humankind—if they had been fully adopted and we had prevented the counter-revolution that we feared and worked tirelessly to prevent. You know…the counter-revolution which you set into motion, you coward! shouted the old man, pointing his long, thin finger at Troy.

I…I have no clue what you’re talking about! said Troy, now more irritated and frightened by the old man’s lecture than interested in it.

The old man boffed once more.

Oh, you know exactly what I am referring to, Troy Duckworth. Don’t try to play these silly games with me, boy. You and I both know the true answers to my questions, roared the old man.

Troy began to sense anger inside of the old man. He sensed danger. He regretted his decision to come out and meet the old bum.

He must be mistaken. I have no clue what this bum is talking about, thought Troy to himself while his heart pumped in a throbbing panic.

Do you want to know something, Troy? Do you want to know how the world works? ‘Cause I’ll tell you how it works. Let’s see…do you consider yourself intelligent, Troy? smirked the old man.

Yes, sir. Yes sir, I do, retorted Troy in a scared, childish voice.

Good. That’s exactly what I was expecting to hear. Now, do you believe you are an intellectual…a genius of some sort? inquired the old man.

Troy delayed his response amid his racing panic, Uh, I don’t think so, sir.

Ah, replied the old man with an exaggerated expression, waving his pointer finger around as he spoke. That is precisely what I expected to hear. You are much too predictable, my boy. Well, Troy, this is how intellectuals work, how they function; since you, the mastermind behind the counter-revolution himself, claim you do not understand. You see, Troy, the most inspired, moved intellectuals were—and still are—hard to come by; they are a rare breed. But the few and true geniuses can manipulate lesser intellectuals to believe something totally apocryphal—something totally false! And you, Troy, are a true genius. And true geniuses, Troy, the type that we both are, we can un-learn an idea just as we had learned it in the first place. And I’m not talking about simply forgetting something—I’m talking about deliberately un-learning an idea that was planted into our brains—that we choose to drive it out of our knowledge and conscience. You are a true genius, Troy, like me, and just as you learned The Movement’s ideologies, you un-learned them, completely erasing them from your working memory. Now, Troy, I am forcing you to relearn them…Or else I will kill your family first, and then you. And don’t think I don’t know, for one second, where and how I will find them.

You will not touch my family! screamed Troy, punching his fist through the air.

"You’re one-hundred percent correct, my boy, because you will do exactly as I say. Now let’s get back on track. You, Troy Duckworth, are a genius who un-learned what made you a genius in the first place," exclaimed the old man with his thundering voice.

What the hell are you talking about? You’re…you’re saying that I am a genius…that…that I am a genius because I don’t recall something you accuse me of knowing or doing? screamed Troy.

Listen, boy, sputtered the old man through clenched teeth and filled with impatient anger. The old man reached into his coat pocket. You will take this pill and you will take it now. It will help you remember all the destruction you caused, all the corruption, all the so-called ‘freedom’ you caused.

Listen, I have no clue what you’re talking about, said Troy, taking a step backwards and defending himself with his extended hands.

You will either take this pill, or you will take this bullet to the head and your family dies, interrupted the old man, grabbing his gun from underneath his coat and waving it at Troy.

The old man held his left arm out, palm open, offering the pill to Troy.

What, what is it? asked Troy, shaking with terror.

Troy approached the old man cautiously and reached out his trembling hand, quickly snatching the pill from the old man’s open, gloved palm.

Here, the old man offered Troy a shiny flask, take it with this.

This isn’t going to kill me, is it? asked Troy.

Ha! It will do the exact opposite, my boy! This is what will kill you, if you don’t take it, laughed the old man, flourishing his gun in the air.

Troy threw the tiny pill back into his throat, chasing it with the flask’s classified liquid. Swallowing hard, Troy grimaced. The taste was unpleasant and sour.

Alright, Troy. Nobody is out here, we are all alone, and we will be for quite some time. Let it out. Let out your answers so I know I am right, so I know how it all unraveled so fast when I thought we were on the brink of completion. Why did you do it? Do you remember now, Troy? asked the old man.

Troy’s brain began to tingle. He was beginning to remember what the old man was talking about, or at least the tingling made him feel as if he remembered what the old man was talking about. He gained supreme confidence; his body began to warm itself with comfort. Against his own will, Troy’s mouth began firing out words.

"I did it because I didn’t know what was to come next. We made such radical progress! I was afraid; I was afraid of what might happen to me; to the world! We can’t control everything that happens to everybody—that is why I was so scared, because we were so close to controlling everything and everybody. The Authorities moved so quickly! We were on the verge of world domination, but we were destroying the very principles The Movement stood for!" he confessed.

Finally, the answers I’m looking for! You see, Troy, the Authorities only suspect those who first suspect themselves. If you had continued your duties, The Movement was thriving…but you stabbed us in the back, and now The Movement is an absolute failure; it’s history. Nobody will ever believe that a utopian society is a realistic idea now…now it is only an ideal—an ideal that will never be realized, yet we were so close to that ideal reality…it’s all gone now; it’s all a lost dream, a lost cause, gasped the old man, catching his breath from his rant of explanations.

Troy responded with haste and emotional energy.

The Movement was too radical! There was no way to keep up that rate of progress, that effectiveness, for any long-term period of time. We would have been victims of our own success, suspecting and defeating everyone that crossed paths. Our ‘ideal reality’ was not a utopian society—it was a society of manipulation, a society filled with suspicion and blinded by emotion, by victories! opined Troy.

Shoot, Troy! The more difficult you make this, the easier it is for me to do this! interjected the old man, pointing his gun at Troy’s face.

Troy’s brain began to lose its tingle, and a strong headache began to take over his attention. Intense pain emerged in Troy’s head. He began to sweat again, wincing in agony. He grabbed his head with both hands, bending over quickly and back up to posture, as if he was a raging madman. Despite the overpowering pain, Troy’s instincts surfaced. During his rampage, he bent up while simultaneously yanking his handgun from his belt.

I don’t know who you are! I’ll kill you cold-blooded right now! screamed Troy.

Troy’s veins bulged out of his neck, his eyes popped out of the sockets. He shook his gun back at the old man.

Troy! yelled the old man. Sometimes a man must pay for his crimes. I paid for mine. Now it’s your turn to pay for yours like the rest of us.

The old man pulled his trigger first, shooting Troy in the right shoulder with his silencer. Shocked by the sudden hit, Troy dropped his gun onto the snowy pavement. He stared ahead with beady eyes, his face turning as white as the falling snow surrounding him.

Troy, I’m not going to kill you, but this one is for all the troubles you’ve caused me, muttered the old man.

The old man walked forward quickly and kicked Troy’s gun out of reach. Another zooming bullet hit Troy in his foot, followed by another groan.

Ugh, grunted Troy in pain.

Now, you will do as I say! demanded the old man. You will work with me to revitalize The Movement. Failure is certain, but I will not curb my beliefs. And because failure is certain, your public reputation will finally be revealed. People will now truly know you. They will see your ideologies, your beliefs, your druthers. I know everything about you, Troy. I know where you work; I know where you live; I know your children’s and wife’s names and birthdays; I know where you go in your free time and when you do it. If you choose to not follow my orders, I will kill you, Troy. The choice is yours. Either follow your true beliefs and support them, or you will die a coward. Meet me back here in one week. Same time, same place. Merry Christmas, you darn fool.

The old man picked up Troy’s gun, released the magazine, emptied its bullets, and pocketed the magazine.

I’ll take these with me, whispered the old man.

He tossed the empty gun and bullets, hitting Troy in the chest and knocking him down on his back while the bullets landed quietly in the snow-covered path. The old man concealed his warm gun into his jacket, turned, and walked out of Central Park with much more fury than when he entered it.

Still in shock, Troy sat on the cold, snowy pathway in the middle of Central Park. His head rang with an intense, sharp pain, but the cold sting of the bullets lodged in his body eased the headache. He mustered enough energy to crawl halfway to the bench. He curled up in the fetal position. His leg stung and he uncoiled onto his belly. Blood stained and warmed the white snow into a red soup. Troy’s eyes became heavy and he used the last of his draining energy to look up at the old man’s backside as he walked away. He closed his ponderous eyes, then opened them up one last time. He saw the old man turn around and mutter something but could not hear his words. Finally, Troy’s dense eyes gave in as he collapsed onto the snowy path.

Chapter Two

Troy awoke, his vision blurry from the long daze. Refocusing, he looked around—sky blue curtains surrounded him at every angle, sun shining through, illuminating the floating dust particles in the room as if the ceiling were precipitating warm follicles. He noticed the cluster of tubes on his arm—no, in his arm. He felt nauseous, his stomach turning and twisting at the realization of his painful situation. The curtains flew open with a rusty, high-pitched screech. An old lady with a white knitted cap appeared, followed by Troy’s wife, swimming past the elderly nurse to beat her to the edge of Troy’s cot.

Troy! yelped his wife, relieved at the sight of life in her husband.

Ugh, mumbled Troy in response.

It’s ok baby. Whoever did this to you will be caught and everything will be alright. The nurse said you’ll be fine. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but the cold temperature helped clot the wounds quickly. I was so scared, baby, I was so scared! she said frantically.

Troy, coughing and choking, exerted enough energy to force his words out into a somewhat understandable phrase.

I’m…sowr…ree.....Jess, mumbled Troy.

It’s ok, baby, it’s ok…everything is gonna be alright, I promise, she comforted.

Ma’am, your husband is going to need this here pill if you want to keep your promise to him, blurted the elderly nurse through her smoker’s voice.

Her saggy arms jiggled at her every movement as she strutted towards Troy’s cot.

Stunned at the nurse’s rudeness, Jessica Duckworth glared at the large, crooked-nosed old lady and took a step away from the cot, allowing the nurse to slide in front of her.

Now, Troy, you need to take this here pill if you want to start to feel better, OK? demanded the nurse with an odd sincerity.

Troy nodded, eyes half-open and half-closed, acknowledging the nurse’s advice.

Would you rather swallow it with water, or chew it with a cracker? she politely asked, holding up the glass in one hand and the cracker in the other.

Troy forced out a whispering wahh-a, lifting his chin and cracking his mouth wide enough for the nurse to place the small yellow-grained pill on his tongue. The nurse slowly poured the water into Troy’s thin, horizontal mouth formation. He made a loud gulp, Adam’s apple bouncing up in his throat, and swallowed the pill.

There, that should make you feel much better now, declared the nurse with satisfaction while turning to leave the curtained room.

Jessica quickly filled her spot as she waddled out.

There now…there now…that will help you get better, babe, said Jessica.

Her straight, long hair fell onto Troy’s face. He made no attempt to dodge the thick golden locks.

Troy felt his blood heating up inside his neck. The hot sensation traveled down into his shoulders and arms simultaneously, continuing down his spine and through his legs and feet. At this, he belched out a sound of desperation, arching his back up off the cot, sternum reaching for the roof. He suddenly felt dizzy, the ubiquitous blue curtains swirling around him with Jessica’s worried face moving away, then close; away, then close. His ears clogged shut, blocking out all sounds as he watched Jessica’s mouth open and close but no noise being heard. The spinning, chaotic world stopped. Pure blackness took over Troy’s vision, with a dim red speck of blurry light emerging from the black depths. Troy began to hear muffled words, shouting from a distant place. The sounds grew louder, but only the sounds—the words were incomprehensible. Troy felt comfortable, more comfortable than he’d felt in a long time. He enjoyed the feeling; it made him smile and crack open his fidgeting eyes, twitching back and forth from every direction. The sounds were getting louder and beginning to make sense, but Troy’s hazy world continued to please him. He blocked out the sounds, only for a second more.

Suddenly, Troy understood the loud sounds as his wife’s voice.

Troy! Troy! Troy! she screamed louder with each repeating call.

Finally understanding, he looked at her and formed his closed mouth into a pleasant smile, oblivious to the current situation.

What’s the matter? he asked innocently.

Jessica dove her head into his neck and her arms around him with delightful relief, his eyes shutting once again without her noticing.

The nurse popped her head back through the