First Weeks After

by Jay Vielle

  “Oh my God,” said Morgan. “That scared me. What happened?”

  “Motion sensors. You have to have the switch on for them to work,” said Estela. “We actually have them like that in the back of the Wal-Mart. I should have known.”

  The girls looked around. Beneath Father Joe’s office was another office. This one was less ornate, less decorated, fewer pictures of Jesus on the wall, but full of everything else. A giant conference table lay in the middle. Several cubicles and desks were scattered about. Computers were everywhere, and there was even an LCD projector and a big screen on the wall for presentations. To the right of the screen was a whiteboard on wheels with several dry erase markers and writing all over the board.

  All of it in Russian.

  “What the hell is all this Russian stuff about?” asked Morgan.

  “I don’t know, but I’m gonna take a picture of it, just in case we find someone who speaks Russian,” Estela said.

  She took out her phone and looked at it for a moment. It hadn’t been worth much for the entire week. Cell service was spotty; internet was negligible. It was like America’s singular favorite object—the cell phone—was rendered nearly useless.

  “Wow,” said Estela.

  “What?” asked Morgan.

  “Think about it. This machine in my hand. Two weeks ago, it was a phone, it texted, it sent and received email, it looked things up on the internet. It did everything. Now it’s nothing more than a camera and a calculator. Do you think we’ll ever get it back like it was?” Estela said.

  “It’s already coming back. Some. Vinny’s dad said that he received some texts and calls last week. It kinda depends on which cell towers you work from and which satellites. I think so, at least. Anyway, we don’t really have time to philosophize about dependency on technology right now. Just take the picture,” Morgan said.

  Estela took several. She took pictures of things on desks, of the whiteboard, of file cabinets. Anything that might be worth looking into. Then she spotted a set of keys, marked with a sticky note. They said, “water tower” on them. Next to the desk with those keys were two large containers, each one about the size of a gasoline can. On them was the marking, REGN-EB3. On the other, PLX-R18

  “What’s that mean? Have you ever heard of that? REGN-EB3?” asked Morgan.

  “No. I have no idea what it is. I never heard of the other one, either. PLX-R18? What the hell are all those letters about? Here’s another question. Why would the Church of Many Blessings have keys to the town’s water tower?” asked Estela.

  “Here’s a better question: Why would the Church of Many Blessings even need keys to the town’s water tower?” asked Morgan. “Take a picture of the keys and that stuff.”

  “I already did,” said Estela. “Now I’m getting nervous. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Are you kidding? We just got here. We need to try and put things together here. We’ve found a secret meeting room, keys to something that the church should not have keys to, Russians in the church, Russian writing all over the whiteboard in the secret meeting room. We have everything we need here to figure this out. And something is really, really, fishy here,” said Morgan.

  “Let’s check the file cabinets. Maybe we’ll find something,” said Estela.

  The two girls rifled through several cabinets. There were ledgers with payments for 15-passenger vans, vodka, and something marked: “Sergei-entertainment.” Some of the bills were listed as being from Front Royal, Virginia.

  “Oh God,” said Morgan. “Do you see this?”

  “What?” asked Estela.

  “Front Royal. That’s where those people trapped us and were going to sell us,” said Morgan.

  “As sex slaves,” said Estela. “That’s an unpleasant coincidence. I hope I never see that town again. That place was worse than fighting off those mutate things.”

  “Those people got what they deserved,” said Morgan. “And their very own people betrayed them to do it.”

  “Morgan, do you remember the guy who was going to buy us?” asked Estela.

  “Barely. They gunned him down in front of us. I can’t get that scene out of my head. Blood and bullets were everywhere. Why are you making me relive it?” asked Morgan.

  “Do you remember his name?” asked Estela.

  “His name? God, Estela, how do you remember anything about that other than death?” Morgan asked.

  “Because I think his name was Sergei. And I’m pretty sure he was Russian,” said Morgan.

  “Wait. The guy who was going to buy us. You’re right. His name was Sergei. And he spoke with an accent for sure. That’s, that can’t be a coincidence,” Morgan said.

  “Oh my God, you don’t think,” started Estela.

  “That the church was going to buy us? As sex slaves? That doesn’t make sense. These people can’t be that depraved. I mean, this is your father’s church. He disowned you for having a lesbian girlfriend. He wouldn’t have sex slaves. Would he?” asked Morgan.

  “I just can’t see that. He’s lost his way, for sure, but he’s not that lost,” said Estela.

  “None of this makes any sense. Water tower keys. Some kind of stuff that might go in the water tower called REGN-EB3 and PLX-R18. Russian everywhere, and ties to the guy who was going to buy us as slaves. It doesn’t add up,” said Morgan.

  “We need just a little more to figure this out,” said Estela.

  “And I am afraid that you are not going to have the opportunity,” said a voice from the stairway.

  Morgan’s blood ran cold. Estela gaped towards the stairs. A man was standing there.

  “My name is Oleg. And I am afraid you are trespassing.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “So, Mark, I’d like to show you all I have in mind, and see if you can possibly fit into our scheme of things here,” said Father Joe.

  “Yes, well I heard that you might be hosting some kind of town meeting?” Mark Longaberger said.

  “That’s right, that’s right,” Father Joe said jovially. “We’re gonna host it right here, at the high school, in the football stadium. I figured it was time, now, after a week has gone by since the bombings with very little word from our government, that we take the bull by the horns, so to speak, and try to unite this town. Or rather, reunite it with itself.”

  “That’s great,” said Mark. “So, you’re just…calling it? You’re saying that this is the town meeting, and everyone is expected to come?”

  “Think of it as a party where everyone is invited. We know that a few won’t make it, but we want everyone to know that they have a vested interest in attending,” said Father Joe.

  “A vested interest?” asked Mark.

  “Yes. Everyone wants this town, this state, this country to bounce back. And right now, as we’re waiting for communications to return to near normal, it’s crucial that we do something ourselves to crawl back to normalcy, and herald the coming of a new age,” said Father Joe.

  “A new age?” Mark asked, somewhat skeptically.

  “You know, Mark, I’ve found that most people don’t really know that they’re making history while they’re actually making it. It usually takes decades of reflection when someone realizes, ‘hey, look what we did,’ or ‘look what we experienced.’ While it’s going on, we’re too focused on getting through something—or even worse—making sure we took a picture of it. It usually isn’t until much later that we realize its importance,” said Father Joe.

  “I guess that’s right,” said Mark. “But you’ve got a lot more years under your tread than I do.”

  “Ha! What a nice way of saying I’m an old fart,” said Father Joe. “But I can tell you’re a little skeptical.”

  “I don’t know that I’d go as far as to say skeptical,” Mark back-pedaled.

  “No, it’s alright. You’ve every right to be. But let me help you on this one. How much do you remember about 9/11/2001?” asked Father Joe.

  “Not much. I was pretty young. I remember my mom
crying, and the television replaying the planes hitting the towers time after time after time. I remember relatives of mine going off to war. A couple of my uncles went to Afghanistan and Iraq,” Mark said.

  “So how often do you see that on the television now?” asked Father Joe.

  “Once a year. Maybe,” said Mark.

  “And how many more times have family members gone off to the front lines of a battle?” Father Joe asked.

  “Well, none. Not after that. But they served their tours. They’re older now.”

  “Exactly,” said Father Joe. “Historic. It never happened again. For us it was just life, or life interrupted. Twenty years fast-forwarded, and you realize it was a special time. Unique in America’s history. Nothing ever happened like that before or since.”

  Mark thought about that for a moment. A slight smirk crossed his face.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  “Okay, here’s another one. Remember the coronavirus a few years ago?”

  “Ugh. How could I forget?” said Mark.

  “Describe it for me,” said Father Joe.

  “Everyone stuck at home. Everyone doing everything by computer. Tons of people out of work. Everyone afraid to go buy groceries. People in masks, people dying. The television was non-stop, all day long, about the coronavirus. Everyone blaming this, and I-told-you-so-ing that. I didn’t see my students for months,” said Mark.

  “And though it’s only a little bit from that in the future? History. Never anything quite like it. We’ve had famine, poverty, pestilence, quarantine. But nothing quite like that time in American history before or since. When you tell your grandchildren those stories, they won’t believe them. They’ll look at you like you’re from another planet. Just like you looked at your grandparents when they talked to you about World II, or the Kennedy assassination, or the Berlin Wall coming down,” Father Joe said.

  “I see your point,” Mark said.

  “I hope so. We are the children—I’m an older one—who have endured World War III. It may not even be over yet. We may have only seen the start. But rebuilding from it—if we take that upon ourselves to do—if we are active in making our future—nothing will ever be like it, before or since,” said Father Joe. “We can remake this town—for all we know, one of the few in Maryland that survived—and make it a paradise. Get it right, top to bottom, and set the standard for generations to come.”

  “I just got chills,” said Mark. “I swear, hearing you talk about this, I just got chills.”

  “Good,” chuckled Father Joe. “I have that effect on people.”

  “So, what is it you’d like me to do?” asked Mark.

  “It’s going to sound pretty shallow when I tell you,” said Father Joe.

  “Okay, I won’t judge,” said Mark.

  “Good. Because I want you to be a sign twirler,” said Father Joe.

  “What? A sign twirler?”

  “So to speak. You are going to sit or stand next to a giant sign talking about the meeting for a few days before it happens,” said Father Joe.

  “Why me?” asked Mark.

  “Again, this will sound shallow. You’re a handsome man. Younger females will look at you and decide to come to the meeting. And we need young people. Old people always come to church. They’re facing their afterlives in the short term. Young people think they’re immortal and indestructible. There’s no need for them to go to a church-sponsored event. But you, Mark, are an icon of the school. Young people in this town have seen you, had your class, they know who you are. And young twenty-something girls—and dare I say—even younger—will spot you and want to know how to meet you and they’ll pay attention to this sign in ways they never would have,” Father Joe said.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” said Mark.

  “Good lad. I’d like to set you out near the college, if that’s alright. More ‘bang for the buck’ as it were. At least start there. We may move you around some. I’m just waiting for Pablo to show up to tell us if he got permission,” the pastor said.

  The two men had walked the extent of the building and were just exiting on the side of the building next to the football stadium when Pablo Fuentes himself walked up.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Father Joe.

  “Padre, in your line of work, I don’t think this is a saying that you should be trying to get away with,” Pablo said, smiling. “Were you, in fact, speaking of me?”

  “We were, Pablo; we were. I was telling Mark here that I’d like him to sit by a sign and answer questions on the most public part of the campus on Route 15, but we were waiting for you to get approval,” the pastor said.

  “And you have it,” said Pablo. “I spoke with the president and the provost today, and they were fine with it. They will also announce it to the foreign students who still reside there, as well as to all of the faculty. It seems your idea is, cómo se dice, ‘taking off,’ no?”

  “It is, it is,” said Father Joe. “Thank you so much for your influence, amigo.”

  “De nada, Padre. It’s truly nothing indeed,” Pablo said.

  “It’s definitely not nothing. When we all work together like this, amazing things can happen. Just a few days before the meeting, and things seem to be coming together,” said Father Joe.

  “What other role do you need me to play, Padre?” asked Pablo.

  “Other than being with us at the 50-yard-line?” asked the pastor.

  “That would be a great honor, Padre. Gracias.”

  Just then, a strange sound came out of Father Joe’s pocket. It sounded like something computer generated, and very much like a ringtone. Father Joe’s face changed from jovial to serious in an instant. He looked a little embarrassed, pardoned himself, and reached in his pocket to answer his phone.

  “His phone works? Wow. Mine has been off since the bombings. Does yours work, Pablo?” asked Mark.

  “I have received texts, but no one has called me. Not for a week,” said Pablo.

  “Calls are rare these days. I guess it’s hard to find people using the same cell tower, or phone company, or whatever,” said Mark.

  “I suppose so,” said Pablo, turning to look at the pastor. “Interesting looking cell phone the Padre has.” Mark squinted his eyes, removed his glasses for a moment, then put them back on.

  “It looks like it is from twenty years ago, no?” Pablo said, chuckling. “The Padre should treat himself to something a little more updated.” Mark took one more look, then turned to Pablo.

  “That’s a satellite phone, Pablo,” he said.

  “Aren’t all cell phones satellite phones?” Pablo asked.

  “Cell phones transmit to an earth-bound tower. Satellite phones transmit directly via satellite. And they are very, very expensive. They can charge up to $15 per minute for each call, and they’re so expensive to buy that most people only rent them. They’re also pretty rare. Father Joe doesn’t need an upgrade, Pablo. He’s got something nobody else I know has,” said Mark.

  “Hmm,” said Pablo. “That is interesting.”

  More interesting, I think, than you’re aware of thought Mark. Why would a simple country pastor like Joseph Clarque need a satellite phone? And how would the church justify paying for it, when land line and cell phones worked just fine. At least until a week ago.

  “Alright, I’ll be there right away,” Father Joe said, hanging up. “I’m sorry gentlemen, I’m pulled away on some urgent business. I’ll have to postpone this until a bit later.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Padre. Would you like us to go with you?” asked Pablo.

  “No, this is something I have to handle myself. Pablo, why don’t you take care of the sign situation with Mark. I have to head over to the church for a moment and then perhaps elsewhere.”

  “Will do, Father Joe,” said Mark.

  “Happy to help,” said Pablo. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Oleg. He, uh, has something he needs me to take a look at and make a quick decision on. I�
�ll chat with you all later. Thanks, as always,” said Father Joe. And with that, Father Joe hopped into the golf cart that he had ridden over from the church to Hunter’s Run.

  “I hope it’s nothing too serious,” said Pablo. “Oleg rarely speaks, and never calls.”

  “I’m sure it’s something having to do with the meeting that Father Joe needs to decide on,” said Mark. “So how can you get me started on the sign thing?”

  “Well,” said Pablo, “there’s not much to do. The sign is ready, all we need is a comfortable chair for you to sit down on when you get tired of standing.”

  “I have one of those here, in my classroom,” said Mark. “Where’s the sign?”

  “Ay, mierda, that’s what I forgot,” Pablo said. “The sign is over at the church.”

  “No worries, Pablo. You can drive me and my chair to the college, and we can stop by the church on the way to pick up the sign.”

  “Well, I’ll need to use church transportation,” said Pablo. “But we can walk to the church—it’s not far, as you know. And with any luck, we will see Father Joe there and he can loan us a vehicle. Or perhaps even better, maybe Oleg can give us a ride.”

  “Sounds like a perfect plan,” said Mark. “I’ll be right back to get my chair, and then we’ll head over.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The morning was beautiful. Not just pretty. Beautiful. The sun came through the windows of the main building from the East, reflecting off the Anacostia River where we had come the night before. I rose before everyone else, and silently went to the window to look. Flowers everywhere. Gardens, hedgerow mazes, shrubs and trees as far as the eye could see. The only thing that came to mind from a sunrise like this was ‘hope.’ It made me hope. I was hesitant to allow myself any. My parents were alive. At least they were a few days ago when they called. A lot can happen in a few days, especially when you live in a city with one of the largest number of homicidal mutates in the country. But today, I decided to hope.

  Wendy was next to wake up. She sat upright and looked at me. Her hair was a little bit tousled, but otherwise she was flawless. She was so naturally pretty, it almost made me wish I was heterosexual. Almost. Jake woke at the slight movement of Wendy. I guessed that for anyone in the Marines, especially those stationed in Iraq, you kind of trained yourself to be a light sleeper.