by Jay Vielle
“Unpack it son,” said the Colonel.
“Got it, sir,” said Vinny. It was awkward in the back seat, and Vinny had to work not to point the barrel at anyone.
“Inside the case is a box of bullets. Take three of them out,” said the Colonel.
“Why only three?” said Vinny.
“It’s a Winchester .308 bolt action sniper rifle son. We won’t get more than three shots off before it’s too late,” said the Colonel. Wendy straightened up.
“Load one of those bullets,” said the Colonel. Tommy reached over to help his brother. Under normal circumstances, Vinny would have yelled that he could do it and it would have devolved into a brawl like we saw in the cell. But not now. Now he accepted his brother’s help and nodded a thank you.
“Jake, get as far ahead of them as you can with a clear shot. You can rest the barrel on the hood of the Humvie.”
The Colonel’s voice was icy calm.
I was at the World War II Memorial, and somehow I realized that my hopes were dashed. I was too tired to elude them, my suit weighing me down and slowing me. I saw the Humvie flying up near us, and hoped he could get there in time. I jumped into the reflecting pool and stumbled, trying to keep my balance. The mutates hesitated for a moment before getting in. I exhaled a small sigh of relief. For the first moment in a while, they weren’t gaining on me. The moment didn’t last. They splashed towards me, and the suit slowed me even more.
But by now, the Humvie had torn past us on the grass of West Potomac Park. There was a break in the trees about half way down the pool. Jake pulled the Humvie through that opening and up close to the pool. The Colonel handed Jake the remaining two bullets, then Jake jumped out of the Humvie and the Colonel passed the rifle out through the window. Jake took his stance on the far side of the vehicle and checked to make sure the bullet was in the chamber.
“Take your time, Marine. You will have at best three shots. Remember these things can die, but they don’t slow down much when hurt. Shoot to kill. Aim for the biggest mass.”
Jake leveled the rifle barrel on the hood of the Humvie. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He squeezed the trigger, and the mutate farthest from me stopped in its tracks as a giant bloody explosion erupted from his chest and back. I stopped for a moment too, but then started up again, realizing that mutate number two was closer now. I turned to look at my pursuer and wasn’t paying attention to my feet. They got hung up in the suit and I went down hard into the water. The second mutate was about ten feet from me when I heard the second shot ring out. The bullet spun the mutate around, hitting it in the left shoulder. It howled in pain, grasping at its shoulder, then recovered and came right for me. It was just like when we were on the bus last week. The mutates can feel pain, but they shrug it off almost immediately. The mutate picked up its feet and resumed the chase. It was about three feet from me when the third shot rang out.
The mutate’s head exploded. I collapsed in the water, exhausted. Then, a few seconds after the last mutate was shot, a noise like nothing I ever heard came ringing from the area by the Washington Monument. It was a cry of extreme anguish, and even sounded like the word “no”—but only if an animal was the one saying it. It was high pitched and blood curdling. We looked at the Washington Monument where the sound was coming from. There was one, lone, mutate, standing upright, clutching the air. It had long, white hair and a feminine shape.
“Colonel, give me the binoculars please,” said Tommy hurriedly. Tommy hopped out of the Humvie and looked through the binoculars for a moment at the screaming noise. The mutate had dropped to its knees and was clearly mourning the loss of its pack members. It took one last sighing gasp that was audible even from where we were, then slumped over a moment, before straightening up again. Its face turned directly toward the vehicle where Tommy was standing.
“It’s her,” he said. “It’s Mom.”
CHAPTER 17
Mark Longaberger was bored. He’d been sitting on the corner of the campus of Mt. St. Michael’s in his chair for hours next to the large church sign announcing the giant mandatory town meeting at Hunter’s Run High School. He had literally seen no one. Not a single vehicle passed by on Route 15, not a single human being had walked by on the campus. He understood why Father Joe had given him this last task. He was a good talker, a good promoter, and he was young enough to catch the eyes of college students and old enough to catch the eye of working adults and professors. Except for one, simple problem: nobody was there. Mark thought about the origins of his current state, wondering how things had gotten this way. Some things he knew, others he could only guess at.
The bombs that dropped the week before had left the country in limbo. When the very first attacks came, the news was all over it. They had identified the alliances made by foreign countries and speculated as to their reasons. They had taken note that the majority of the bombs that hit the U.S.—and one hundred percent of the ones that hit the Eastern seaboard of the country—were Russian in origin. They had noted that those bombs were taking out communications and people—but that the general destruction seen in past conventional wars seemed to be absent this time. The president had survived and was spirited away to an undisclosed location. So had much of Congress, as well as key military figures. That had happened quickly. And then the communication stopped completely.
For almost a week, not a single word about anything. It was weird, surreal, and something Americans were very, very unaccustomed to. During the global coronavirus pandemic earlier in the decade, people were sheltered in their homes. That had been strange, but the world had television and the internet. In fact, we had too much information during that world-wide lockdown.
This time was different. The Russians hit numerous broadcasting transmitters, satellite dishes, and communication arrays. It took a little while, but very soon we were completely in the dark. No one knew for certain what was going on. The Russians had found our Achilles heel, and delivered the killing arrow with frightening accuracy. The result had been near complete disconnection from one another and the world. As companies and individuals struggled to get back up and running, the result was communication that was sporadic, untrustworthy, and most often, useless. And our inability to communicate with one another made it nearly impossible to cooperate in the reconstruction of communication infrastructure. The long and short of it was that we didn’t really know anything for sure.
Some cities had been devastated in terms of human cost. Others were fairly untouched. Electricity was down in some places, working in others. Cell phones were usually useless, then for a few moments would receive messages and calls, only to die again later. The situation was maddening. Mark and a few dozen colleagues and students had decided to hole up in Hunter’s Run High School for the first days after the bombing. They had been the ones with nowhere to go, or ones who had been caught unprepared, or ones who had been trapped by circumstance.
Eddie Reyes had decided to stay when hearing that his parents were trapped in Washington when it got hit. Maureen Kelly was a divorcee living alone, and decided it was more prudent to stay and survive those first few days with others. Al DeFillipo had essentially done the same. Jake Fisher’s family was spread out, and he figured he could do more good staying at Hunter’s Run than running off alone. And Mark? He was young, unattached, and saw the opportunity to shine. Mark was the epitome of the old-fashioned idea of a Renaissance Man. He was physically fit, and had played sports in high school. He was highly educated, with a Bachelor’s in History and a Master’s Degree in Education. He played an instrument, and he was an avid camper and outdoorsman. In essence, there was almost nothing he couldn’t do. And in his early thirties, he was peaking. He figured staying at the school would give him his chance to shine.
The boss in a school during normal times was the principal, but these times were extraordinary. Mark was banking that he could be a leader. He could help people team up, conserve energy and food, and prepare their high school to be a fortress and
a home away from home while the world reeled from the blow of bombings. In fact, his desire to shine in such times was almost perverse. Sometimes he felt guilty that he saw opportunity in such circumstances rather than tragedy, but he figured he could make up for that by doing the job of leading his colleagues through the first days after.
And then Jake Fisher took over. Without a vote, without a proclamation, Fisher had just assumed command, and essentially done exactly what Mark was hoping to do. And to make things worse, Fisher was good at it. In all likelihood, with his Marine background, Fisher was better at it. Something selfish had bubbled in Mark’s soul at that point, and he looked for every way to stick it to Jake that he could find. When he saw that some of his colleagues were offering pushback to the way Jake was handling things, Mark jumped on board, seeing for himself another window of opportunity for leadership. With his help, Mark had essentially pushed Jake Fisher out of the picture.
And now he regretted it.
Mark had allied himself with a group of people who now seemed suspect to him. Mark was a young Republican who felt that too much government was not his preference. But the people who had driven out Fisher, the ones from the church, came across a little prejudiced. It wasn’t anything overt, mind you, but things they said were red flag statements. Referring to people of color and homosexuals as “they;” that stuff that Pablo had mentioned before about God not wanting the mongrelization of the races; the whole feeling he got from the Segens about them feeling they were socially above everyone else. That stuff was subtle, but usually the tip of an iceberg he wasn’t sure he wanted to be stranded on.
Jake Fisher had proven to be violent, for sure, but also honorable and selfless. Yes, he was a take-charge-kind-of-guy, but he never seemed to do it for himself, more for the greater good of the group. And Fisher had warned him about the church. He even gave the disclaimer that he might be wrong with his impressions, but he warned Mark before that those people weren’t what they seemed to be. That warning still troubled him. This town meeting seemed like a nice idea, though. Trying to unify a town in a time of crisis—how could that be bad?
But it was boring. At least this part of it. His task had been a futile gesture, he realized that now. It’s hard to advertise something if nobody is watching. Just then, he thought he heard something. He turned around to face the campus, and saw a group of four students walking towards the back of the campus. Holy cow, he thought. There are students here after all. I think I’ll go talk to them. Mark rose, left his chair and the sign in place, and made his way towards the foursome. There were two girls and two boys. One of the girls was blonde, tall, and thin. The other was short, stout, and red-headed. The two boys they were with were both tall and muscular. One was very dark-skinned, the other somewhat lighter, perhaps Latino. Mark walked up to them.
“Excuse me, my name is Mark. I didn’t know that there were people on campus. Are you guys staying here?” he asked.
“Yes, we’re international students studying abroad here. So after things started to get crazy, the college told us to stay here, and they are giving us the room for free, and each day they prepare us meals,” said the red-head. “My name is Orla. I’m from Ireland. Pleasure to meet you.”
“And I am Saskia, from the Netherlands,” said the blonde.
“My name is Jordan. I’m from Cameroon,” said the dark-skinned student.
“And I’m Roberto, from Puerto Rico. Mucho gusto,” the lighter-skinned boy said.
“A pleasure to meet all of you,” said Mark. “I’ve actually been sent here to guard that sign over there. The Church of Many Blessings in town is having a town meeting at Hunter’s Run High School, where I work. Or worked, at least. It’s tomorrow afternoon if you’d like to come. They’re discussing ways to get things going here again, if you’re interested.”
“We literally have nothing else to do,” said Orla. “Maybe we’ll come. You’ll be there?”
“For sure,” said Mark. “So where are you guys headed?”
“Up to the Grotto. Would you like to come with us?” said Jordan.
“What’s the Grotto?” asked Mark.
“It’s a holy place,” said Orla. “The shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes is up there. It’s beautiful, quiet, very special. You’ve never seen it?”
“Afraid not,” Mark said. “I’m not originally from around here.”
“It is truly special,” said Jordan. “It is worth the walk. It’s not too far.”
“I’m game, lead the way,” said Mark.
So up they went. The trail to the Grotto was about three quarters of mile up the mountain into the woods. The path was worn well enough, and the scenery divine. Woods for miles, the path meanders up to the area carved out for the shrine, which includes two welcome centers, several pools and fountains, gardens, a chapel, several outdoor seating areas for gathering and prayer, and of course, the Grotto Shrine itself, dedicated to Mother Mary.
The Grotto has an effect on people that is almost magical. Almost instantly transfixed, people speak of it being one of the holiest, most peaceful places they’ve ever been. Mixing natural scenery with carefully kept gardens and monuments, the Grotto has visitors year-round, but is at its best when nearly empty. And on this day, the only five people around were Mark Longaberger and his new friends who came to the United States to study and worship.
“This place is amazing,” Mark said in a reverent whisper. “I see now why you come up here. It’s so peaceful.”
“It is,” said Saskia. “I stay here for hours when I come alone.”
“It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been,” said Orla. “I sometimes bring water bottles with me when I come.”
“Water bottles?” Mark asked.
“Aye. The water coming out of that fountain is rumored to be holy and blessed. I drink it all the time,” Orla said. “People bring giant tubs to fill sometimes.”
“We have nothing remotely like this in Cameroon,” said Jordan.
“I have never been that religious a person,” said Mark. “But places like this really make me want to revisit that.”
“I thought you said you were holding a sign up for a church?” said Jordan.
“I was. I’m not really affiliated with them,” said Mark. “Just kind of helping out.”
The five walked around a bit, gazed at the gardens, sampled the water, and even took some time to mediate and pray to themselves. After about thirty minutes or so, the students began to make their way back.
“Leaving so soon?” said Mark.
“Time to eat for us,” said Roberto. “They prepare meals for us daily. We were looking to kill some time for a bit up here before dinner. We’d better be going.”
“You don’t mind if I stay, do you?” said Mark. “I would love a little more time, just to myself.”
“Of course not, Mark. Go right ahead,” said Orla. “It was nice to meet you. I hope to see you again.” Orla gave a little extra in her smile to Mark, and he smiled back wondering if that was the hint he took it to be. The four international students walked back down the path to the college and their evening meal. Mark decided to go inside the small chapel for a bit.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He meditated that way for nearly twenty minutes, gently feeling the pews and the intricate woodwork in the chapel. He felt at home here. He never expected to be attracted to Catholicism, but there it was. He usually steered far from organized religion, but he had to admit that the beauty and the peace of this place had made him rethink things.
Then the silent reflection was broken with screaming. He heard two voices yelling help, followed by loud smacking noises. He poked his head out of the chapel, trying to discern which direction the voices were coming from. It seemed they were coming from the very end of the shrine—near the Grotto itself.
Behind the Grotto the beautiful woods continued for miles. Behind the fencing that cordoned off the religious area, three people were struggling up the rocky slopes. There we
re two girls and a man. The man was holding a gun, the girls were tied at the wrists. They were screaming for help, and each time they did, the man slapped them and told them to shut up. He pushed them along the trail, which was not very well marked or worn past the shrine. Mark hid behind wall and inched closer towards the three. He snuck up to a stucco wall that hid him, but allowed him a good look at the people making such a ruckus.
And he recognized them all. The man was Oleg, the quiet Russian from the church. The one girl was Pablo’s daughter, Estela, whom he had seen fighting with her father at the high school several days ago. The other girl was Estela’s new girlfriend, who had stood watching in horror as she battled with her father. Oleg kept checking behind him to see if anyone followed them or was alerted to their hollering, then pushed them onward into the woods. It was then that Mark realized what was happening. Oleg was taking them out into the woods to kill them as far away from witnesses as possible.
Jesus, he said to himself. What do I do?
He watched the girls. They were crying, scared, and trying to come to grips with their circumstances. Then he looked at Oleg. Emotionless, unfettered, professional. His only concern was getting caught. Mark decided that no matter what he had stumbled upon, he could not let this happen without trying to intervene. But he recognized the behavior of a killer when he saw one. Oleg would not easily be overpowered, duped, or won over with sentiment. He needed a plan.
He quickly surveyed the landscape. Oleg was taking them up a relatively rocky path. Harder to track on rocks, thought Mark to himself. The trees were also thicker nearby. Off to the left, behind the bleachers of the outdoor arena, was a dry stream bed. It had thick trees on either side of it, but itself seemed like a quicker, smoother path up the mountain. More importantly, it was also hidden from view thanks to the dense evergreens there. He might have a chance of surprising Oleg if he took that path, but he could not wait. With every step Oleg got closer to an acceptable place to kill the girls. He nodded to himself, hopped over the fence, and started running up the stream bed.