by Wendy Alec
She watched as a team of black-helmeted soldiers dragged two men from the neighboring tenement block, and a second team crashed through the entrance to her building.
Polly ran to Alex’s desk, pulled out a pad of paper, and desperately started writing. The thud of approaching boots got louder. She kept writing, then stuffed the paper in an envelope and ran through to Alex’s study, where she hid it inside a large, dog-eared Roget’s Thesaurus—a gift from his beloved maternal grandfather when he was just twelve. Then she ran in bare feet back to the bedroom, put on the nearest pair of sneakers, grasped her tracksuit top, and pulled it over her head. Then she grabbed her pocket Bible and taped it to the back of her neck.
She tried the cell phone once more. Still dead.
There was a loud bang as the front door to the apartment swung violently open. A soldier burst through the bedroom door, pointing his submachine gun straight at her.
“Polly Mitchell,” he said in a thick accent that sounded Slavic. “You are under arrest for insurgency.”
“I’m a UK citizen,” she said softly.
The soldier thrust a sheaf of papers at her. “Extradition papers. You’ll be tried under U.S. law.”
“Tried for what?”
Polly stared directly into the soldier’s eyes. He faltered momentarily.
“For treason. Against the Constitution. You are on Blacklist. You are terrorist.”
He grinned. “We are not American soldier. We don’t care.” He pushed her in the chest with the butt of the submachine gun and, with a lecherous laugh, waved her toward the door with the gun barrel.
Slowly Polly walked out of the apartment, her hands raised above her head. The door slammed behind her.
* * *
Monastery of Archangels, Alexandria, Egypt
Pierre laid out a copy of Guber’s pandemic map.
“The real pandemic will affect the entire Midwest and South: Kansas and Missouri up to Iowa and down to Alabama. California and New York have been kept clean. Too many new world order lackeys there.
“They’ve been bringing body bags in from out of state since dawn to make it look like New York’s been hit with the plague,” he continued. “Moscow is hit. Europe all the way from Norway to Greece. Normandy is clean, naturally. And London—they can’t compromise the square mile. They plan to exterminate all resisters under the guise of the pandemic.”
Pierre looked over at Jason and sighed. “I don’t know how to say this nicely . . . ” He hesitated and took a deep breath.
“Just say it, Pierre,” Lawrence said.
Pierre turned to Jason, grim faced. “It’s Miss Julia,” he said softly. “She’s on the Red List. She’s been issued a yellow card.”
“Walk with me, Jason,” Lawrence said. He took Jason’s arm and walked out of a small door into the monastery corridors.
They walked past the monastic chambers. Lawrence stopped in mid step and looked Jason directly in the eye.
“Julia’s in great danger,” he said. “Jason, I need you to listen very carefully.”
Jason nodded.
“There are at least four hundred concentration camps—quietly modified facilities—all across the United States. They’ve been springing up for over two decades. Until four years ago, they were seemingly devoid of activity, yet they each had barbed wire-topped fencing, helicopter wind socks, and major highways and railroad transport facilities adjacent to the sites.
“Over thirty foreign military bases under the United Nations flag are already set up in the U.S., all with the approval of special appointees in high federal positions. The camps are set up for dissenters who will not go along with the new world order. The ‘resisters’ are gun owners who refuse to give up their weapons; the ‘dissidents’ are Christians, patriots, and constitutionalists.”
“You’re kidding me, Lawrence!” Jason looked at Lawrence skeptically. “It’s been conspiracy theory for years. You’re sounding like Alex, for God’s sake.”
Lawrence slowly shook his head. “This is not conspiracy theory, my boy. It’s highly classified information, verified by intelligence services—CIA, MI-Six, FSB, and the Mossad, to name a few.”
He gave Jason a steely look.
“All across the world. These bases are already manned with over one million troops from Russia, Poland, Germany, Belgium, Turkey, Great Britain, Nicaragua, and a number of Asian countries. Unlike our own troops, they have no qualms about firing on U.S. citizens. They’ve been preparing for over a decade. As far back as March of 2012, Homeland Security purchased four hundred fifty million rounds of forty-caliber hollow-point bullets, followed by a second order for a further seven hundred fifty million rounds the same year. Why would the U.S. government need over a billion rounds of ammunition?”
“Preparing for economic collapse . . . riots.” Jason shrugged. “Twenty twelve was a bad year for the USA.”
“No, Jason. They’ve been waiting for a moment in time. This moment. Our intelligence confirms that the Blacklist was deployed six hours ago.
“We were too late for Polly Mitchell. Julia’s on the Red List of dissenters. She’ll be picked up next. The only reason she’s still alive is because Chessler has her under close surveillance.”
“Julia?” Jason gasped. “Julia’s completely harmless! Why would she be on any list?”
“Adrian’s going to make her take the Mark, Jason. She’ll be very useful to them if she turns.”
“Oh, God.” Jason paled. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“It’s a matter of life and death. You have to talk to her. Convince her. Our people can pick her up at dawn. We’ll send General Assaf. He’s our best.”
“I’ll do it.” Jason’s jaw set. “I’ll go.”
Lawrence shook his head. “Too dangerous.” He smiled gently at Jason. “New York, I mean.” He hesitated. “Adrian wants you dead. You’re on the Blacklist, my boy.”
Jason’s face set. “I fetch Julia myself. It’s my condition. How much time have I got?”
Lawrence sighed. He looked at Jason steadily. It was pointless to argue.
“Enough,” Lawrence said softly. “You have enough time. In our underground hangars we have seven fully working equivalents of the X-51A WaveRider jet that Boeing eventually threw in the towel on. Our prototypes fly six times faster than the speed of sound, on takeoff—you’ll be in New York in under an hour and a half.”
He nodded toward the state-of-the-art comm system.
“Phone Julia.”
“It’s secure?”
Lawrence nodded again.
“By the way, what do mean, you were too late for Polly Mitchell?”
“She’s been arrested, Jason.”
Jason punched in Julia’s number. Her cell phone was dead.
“All cells will be down. Try the old landline. It’ll be the last to go.”
Jason dialed again.
“Julia . . . Yes. It’s me.” There was a long silence. “It’s Jason.”
* * *
Polly stumbled down the steps of the sixty-four-passenger Chinook CH-47 helicopter, onto the airfield tarmac.
She was stopped by the butt of a submachine gun shoved against her chest, and her leg was shackled to the prisoner in front of her. She stared up at the unmarked, windowless Boeing 747 waiting on the tarmac, then looked around.
Her surroundings looked like Vermont. Impossible. Weak from exhaustion, fear, and hunger, she rubbed her eyes.
The line ahead of her started to move. She stumbled up the steps of the 747 and into the cabin, where her hands and feet were chained to a specially designed harness.
She watched as soldiers picked up bottles of water from a huge pile near the cockpit.
“Water . . . please,” a prisoner behind her whispered.
A cruel laugh came from the soldier in front of her. He poured the water down his throat, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
He shook his head at a soldier about to hand out bottles to the priso
ners. “No water.” He pointed to his throat and made a slashing gesture. His intent was clear: no need to waste water on those soon to be executed.
* * *
Town House, Gramercy Park, New York City
“Oh, Jason, thank God Lily’s safe,” Julia said agitatedly over the landline. “I’m so glad you’re all safe. Yesterday I was having drinks with my clients at the Gramercy Park Hotel . . . ”
Julia sneaked a quick look through the curtain, to the Gramercy Hotel across the street, which was deserted apart from rows of black unmarked military vans.
“Today there are military trucks everywhere.” She peered through the curtain again. “They’re going zip code by zip code. It’s as though it had been planned for months.” Her voice faltered.
“Jason,” she whispered. “Jason, I see body bags.”
Julia walked over to the small bar near the window, holding the phone and cord in her left hand, and, with trembling fingers, picked up a half drunk bottle of pinot grigio.
“Oh, my God, they’re body bags, Jason—in New York! No one’s allowed on the streets without authorization, or they’re arrested. The only information we’ve been given is ‘plague breakout.’ I’m terrified!”
Julia poured the white wine shakily into a water glass. She put the bottle back down and picked up the glass. “There are soldiers in masks everywhere, and, Jason, it’s . . . it’s . . . ” She took several sips of wine, then took a deep breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s Polly . . . ” She sobbed into the landline.
“Polly’s dead, Jason. Her landlord said she was rushed to the precinct quarantine hospital, sick. Soldiers came around last night, cordoned off her flat. Said she was infected. With bubonic plague.” Julia garbled, “I can’t get hold of Jontil Purvis—her phone’s continually off the hook. There are rumors they’re taking over the cellular system for military use only. Everyone’s back to using landlines. And who knows how long they’ll be working.”
“Julia, calm down,” Jason said. “I spoke to Purvis yesterday. She was fine.”
Julia’s hands shook violently. She downed the remains of the wine, placed the glass on a side table, and clicked on the television. The screen was black except for the words “Emergency Channel” in white.
“I can’t calm down,” she sobbed into the phone. “You’re safe in damned Alexandria with Uncle Lawrence. It’s fine for you to tell me to calm down!”
There was a long silence.
“Is . . . is the plague in Egypt?”
“Yes, Julia. The plague is in Egypt. But the monastery is completely protected. Sealed. Everyone’s safe. Lily is safe.”
He sighed.
“Julia, listen to me,” Jason said, his voice very soft. “You have to listen very carefully to what I’m going to tell you. There’s a vaccination. A vaccination that the military intends to make you and every person in New York take. Adrian’s second message goes to air worldwide in approximately sixty seconds.” He checked his watch.
“Any moment now. Turn on the TV. The Emergency channel.”
“It’s on.” Julia stared blankly at the television screen. It’s black. Just says ‘emergency channel.’”
She frowned as the television crackled to life. Staring at her from the screen was Adrian De Vere.
* * *
Damman, Saudi Arabia
“Faisal is dead?” Jotapa whispered, clinging tightly to Nick. “Really dead?”
Nick nodded. “Assassinated by his own security detail.”
Jotapa wiped away a tear from her cheek. “For all his wickedness, he was my half brother.”
“We need to get Polly. We have to hurry,” Alex said in a low voice to Nick.
Nick looked deeply into Jotapa’s eyes. She nodded.
“I sense it, also.”
She turned to look at her younger brother, Jibril. He had grown into a man these past three years in exile. He was now nineteen, over six feet tall, and his thick, dark-brown hair, now matted, fell to the nape of his neck. But it was in his eyes that she saw the change. The gentle, clear gaze now held a steely anger. She removed her arms from around Nick’s waist and slowly walked over to where Jibril stood.
“Jibril, my brother, I will not be returning with you to Petra,” she said. “You will return to Jordan with General Kareem.”
Jibril shook his head vehemently. “I will not go without you, beloved sister.”
Tears streamed down Jotapa’s face as she held Jibril’s bruised face in her hands. “You are now the rightful king of Jordan, Jibril,” she whispered. “You will serve our people as Papa did. And as did King Aretas, our ancestor. You will be a good and righteous king.”
Alex frowned.
“It’s always been this way, Alex,” Nick said quietly. “You and Jibril go back to Alexandria on your own. Jotapa and I . . . ” Tears filled his eyes. “We . . . we have a long-standing appointment.”
Jibril stood perfectly still, watching Jotapa. Finally, he spoke softly.
“It is to do with your Christ.” He grasped her arm fiercely. “You have been waiting for Him every day, and now you think He is coming to fetch you.”
Jotapa raised her strong, regal features to Jibril. “I will not lie to you, beloved brother. Our ancestor King Aretas and my namesake, his daughter Jotapa, followed the Hebrew. I, no less than they, will live for Him and die if I have to.”
“You believe He is coming to take you with Him.” Jibril grasped Jotapa’s arm so tightly it stung.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she nodded. “Yes, He is coming for us, Jibril. And He will come for you if only you can receive Him.”
Jibril loosed Jotapa’s arm and stepped back. “I cannot.” His eyes flashed with anger. “I will not believe in what I cannot see and touch. You know this to be my nature of old, sister.”
Jotapa nodded. “Then for now it is so, beloved younger brother. But one day you, too, will serve the Hebrew. And protect His people.”
Alex looked strangely at Nick. “You are coming back with us?”
Nick gazed into Alex’s eyes. “I can’t.”
Alex threw his backpack onto the bed. “You think I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He flung up his hands in frustration.
“I got it at the airport from Polly. Polly, you, Jotapa. I know what you’re thinking, Nick. You’re talking about the Rapture.” He glared at Nick. “You all honestly believe that Jesus Christ is just going to walk through that door and transport you to another dimension.”
Alex was seething with anger. “What are you both going to do?” he challenged Nick. “Stay in Damman until He comes to fetch you?” He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “You’re both deluded!”
He pressed a key on his phone—the speed dial to Polly’s cell phone. The strange jamming noise was still there. He frowned. He phoned the landline to his apartment. It rang and rang. He clicked it off in frustration.
“Come on, Jibril,” he said. “We’ve a plane to catch.”
* * *
A Slavic-looking guard with cropped hair shoved Polly and three other prisoners into a large, dank cell that held another thirty women dressed in orange uniforms. A stocky woman in military dress roughly stripped Polly completely naked as the guard watched from the far corner of the cell. Then the woman grabbed Polly’s ears and held her head still as a second Russian woman put a dirty electric razor to Polly’s head.
Blood wet the once-beautiful glossy blond hair as it fell in long, thick, locks onto the concrete floor.
Polly cowered in the corner, naked, her skull shaven and bloody, tears streaming down her face. The Russian woman flung a set of filthy orange overalls at her.
Polly pulled on the overalls, desperately trying to stop the sobs welling up in her throat.
Another guard appeared in the doorway. He passed a stack of documents with a crimson seal to the Russian, who gave a gumtoothedgrin.
Five minutes later, Polly and the other women in the holding cell were blindfolded, then pr
opelled down unending dank corridors until they reached an enormous brightly lit warehouse. The blindfolds were ripped from their heads.
Polly winced at the blinding fluorescent lights hanging from the steel rafters above her. Her eyes gradually focused on a line of steel boxcars in front of her.
She looked around the warehouse. It was crammed with hundreds of women, all with shaven heads and wearing orange uniforms. She listened intently. Many of them were singing softly. The melody was familiar, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. She was sure it was an old hymn.
The militia captain was holding something up in the air, but Polly wasn’t close enough to make it out. She obediently followed the queue of women in front of her and walked past the militia captain for inspection. Her whole body trembled violently as she recognized the object that the soldier was holding up.
It was a woman’s shaved head. Blood still ran from it, as though it had just been severed. Polly retched as the woman in front of her collapsed to the ground. Instantly, two uniformed women with coarse features grabbed the fallen woman and dragged her toward one of the boxcars.
Polly exchanged a look with an elderly woman behind her, who was singing softly. She listened intently to the words.
“When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died
My richest gain I count as loss
And pour contempt on all my pride.”
The woman squeezed her hand. “He is very near,” she whispered. “Their chains cannot hold Him.”
Polly looked at her in wonder. “You’re a believer?”
The elderly woman’s face radiated a deep peace. “Yes,” she whispered. She smiled tenderly at Polly. “I believe.”
Tears streamed down Polly’s face as she listened intently. Hundreds of women had now joined in singing the old hymn. Polly began to sing along, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God . . . ”