SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

  “How could they have fallen so far?”

  Chass’ shoulders lowered, his voice becoming only a whisper of what it was before. “I remember the ‘Gathering’ that took place before we attacked one city in particular—a town called Birmingham. It took place in the black of night, as it always does.” Chass’ focus shifted to a recent memory that was so vibrant in his mind that he could recount every detail.

  As these scenes of torture endured, the Executor stood on a platform above them all, his strong voice reaching all those in the crowd. The sound was so surreal. The cries of terror. The music. The sadistic screams. The smell was thick and rich, like the smell of burnt oil mixed with blood. Chass remembered the man’s words as if he was hearing them all over again.

  “We come at the end of a long history of true warriors—who were so fearless, that they gladly sacrificed life and limb to protect their way of life. And we perpetually spit into the faces of our ancestors with this pathetic race that we have become. We are the sons and daughters of some of the most worthy souls: Tigranes the Great, who was so grand that only kings were allowed to attend him; Cyrus, the King of Kings of Persia; Lucius Sulla, that man who brought the Roman Senate to its knees; Eric Haraldsson the Viking king who was known as Bloodaxe; Meng Tian, the champion against the nomadic hordes of Xiongnu; Shaka Zulu, the ruthless leader who bathed in his enemies blood at the river Mhlatuze; William the Conqueror who united England by sheer force of will; Saladin, the man who shook the Christian faith; King Pyrrhus, Miyamoto Musashi, and Miltiades the Younger, that Olympic chariot racer who decimated the Persians at the battle of Marathon. These men were made great by the brutality of the world, and so shall we be made great. They will always be remembered—now let us prove worthy to be remembered along with them. Tonight we prepare ourselves by drinking the blood of the defeated; tomorrow we prove our worth in battle!”

  Isaac touched Chass’ shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  Chass ripped away, the veins of his neck pulsing.

  “He’s an evil man; I understand that but—.”

  “You have no idea. The Gathering is only the beginning. You’re people will soon be begging for death.”

  “It doesn’t change anything,” Isaac replied. “These sorts of things have taken place since Cane first killed Abel. But just because evil has a fleeting triumph does not mean that good is vanquished. We need you brother. Help us fight this demon.”

  Chass replied slowly. “If I did, I would be at war with myself. When I was working for the Executor, I felt a sense of purpose that I have never felt before. I was not limited by him, as I am here.”

  “I can help you fight that war.”

  “I hear that Jacob is recovering well,” Chass said, “enjoy the time you have with him because there’s not much left.” He turned and headed for the door.

  Isaac chased after him. “Here, take this with you.” He handed his brother a radio and several sets of batteries. “The range is about twenty miles, and with the extra batteries, it should last for three months. If you need help, just ask. There are only two radios with this same frequency: you have one, and I have the other. I’ll always keep it on me and charged. You might one day be my enemy, but you will always be my brother.”

  Chass looked at the radio as if he was considering dropping it to the floor. Instead, he shoved it into a pocket and pushed through the door without another word. The door hinged back and locked into place, making the self-exile much more permanent. He was gone and, Isaac was sure, he would not be coming back.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Day 92

  Rosemary dabbed a wet cloth around Jacob’s head, her hands wrinkled from the persistent submersion in water. Jacob was awake, but his jaw was shut tight as if it had been glued together. It had been two weeks since he was shot, only a few days since the doctors became optimistic about his recovery. His body was weak and pale, but already he felt much stronger than only a week ago. Memories of recent weeks were so hazy and distorted that a few times, he really did believe he had passed from this life to the next. Rosemary was never long from his side. She insisted on taking care of Jacob along with her other tasks, and the strain was starting to appear as dark circles under her eyes.

  She looked worn, like a rubber band that was left in the sun, beaten down by the endless concerns and problems of the Congregation. Despite her physical appearance, however, there was strength in her eyes that did not waiver, and Jacob was sure that the only way her determination would disappear from her would be in death. Her energy seemed to be perpetual; her capacity to endure physical labor was endless.

  Seeing his mother’s energy filled Jacob with an anger that burned like nothing he had felt before. She’s a strong woman—a leader in the Congregation—and she can’t accept what has happened. How many things does she need to see before she can grasp reality? She’s abandoned her family. Jacobs’s thoughts turned into a bitter cycle that cascaded and amplified with each passing second. He had not talked to his mother much since the EMP—everything he mentioned about the disaster seemed to bother her—and now he became sick of her victim mindset. Another wave of anger surged over his body, and he quickly found himself pretending as if she was not there—much like he had been doing the last several days. He and his mother were never close, but now, in the wake of everything, he felt as if he hardly knew her.

  “I know what you did Jacob—”

  “Do you?” Jacob’s voice was sharp and crisp, as if his tongue was a razor blade that sliced through each word. “You don’t seem to know much anymore.”

  Rosemary pulled back as if the words burned her. “I’ve been sitting here every day taking care of you, and that’s how you speak to me. What more do you want from me?”

  Jacob felt a tinge of guilt, but he did not let it shake his resolve. “You’ve turned off your emotions. It’s like the circuitry in your head has gone bust. When was the last time you kissed Dad and told him you loved him? When is the last time you hugged Jane and told her you are here for her?”

  “I’m taking care of you right now,” Rosemary said. “That’s how I express my love.”

  “You were different before the EMP,” Jacob countered. “You’ve changed. You might work harder, but you’ve checked out.”

  “What EMP are you talking about—”

  Jacob’s rage exploded. “We’re in the fight for our life, and you act as if we just hit a bump in the road. I’ve changed too, and maybe not for the better. I’ve seen people blown apart by explosions and then cut down by bullets. Look at the scars on my hands. Do you remember how I got these? Our reality is like a slice of hell, and if we’re going to survive it, you’ve got to face it.” Jacob moved to stand, but a piercing pain pushed him back down.

  Rosemary looked down, tears hanging at the edges of her eyes. “Jacob, I still love you. Maybe, I don’t express it like I used to, but I do. I just can’t deal with everything that has happened—everything…that we’ve lost.”

  Jacob was breathing hard but forced calm into his words. “Tell me what has happened then? Tell me that this is more than a power outage and that we aren’t just living in a Costco as a fun adventure. We’re at the edge of a precipice, and a mad man with an army in tow is coming this way. You need to know the situation we’re in.”

  The tears sprang loose from Rosemary’s eyes.

  Jacob leaned forward and lifted his mother’s chin until their eyes met. “Mother, I don’t know what the future holds, but we need you to be part of it. You still worry about keeping the house clean and checking the mailbox—I’ve even caught you reading old newspapers and acting like they’re hot off the press—but none of that matters now, and you have to come to grips with it.”

  “Why?” Rosemary asked.

  “Because,” Jacobs’s voice cracked, “I don’t know…Jane cries at night. Dad isn’t the same. And I, well, I don’t know…I just want to know if my mother is still with us. We need you—not just a person t
o organize the Congregation and take charge, but we need you. We can die within a matter of days—either cut down by the Executor or some other disaster. And is this the way you want to leave this world?”

  Rosemary wiped her tears from her face. “Ok. I hear you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know what has happened. I know about the EMP and the Executor, and how this world as gone to shit. Is that what you want me to say?”

  “Yes,” Jacob nodded. He had never heard his mother swear before, and in some strange way, it seemed like progress. “I feel like we’re losing you, and if you can’t deal with the situation, I think you’ll leave us completely. I love you, Mom, and I can’t stand the idea of losing you, but—please—don’t make me lose you before I have to.”

  Rosemary leaned forward and pulled Jacob into a heartfelt embrace. Their shoulders shook with deep throbs as tears rivered down their cheeks. It was a long time before they gained control of their emotions and broke their embrace. The medical wing was empty, and the sounds of their weeping echoed throughout the large room.

  Rosemary put her hands on Jacob’s cheeks, and they locked eyes again. “I’m here now. I’m here now. I won’t leave you again.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Day 100

  “They’re here,” said Ben Roedel, his voicing cracking between the two words.

  The two brothers spoke simultaneously.

  “What?” Isaac said.

  “Where are they?” Rick said.

  Ben was one of the individuals who had been selected by Rick in the food auction. He was a machinist by trade but proved invaluable as a hunter and a scout. In the former world, he was an avid deer hunter and, consequently, was well suited to the task of scouting. He would spend days on end outside of Costco, looking for any supplies or possible indications of the Executor’s arrival. He was by far the best tracker, and his reports, despite his poor handwriting, proved to be the best. As soon as Ben spoke, Rick instantly knew the day of reckoning had come.

  Ben’s small statement took Isaac’s breath away. He could do little more than stare back with a stunned expression. Rick was a little more responsive. He approached Ben and patted him on the shoulder, repeating the question he already asked. “Where are they?”

  The man cleared his throat before he spoke. “This morning, I took my Solar Ride to check out an approaching dust cloud—and there they were, in a tight formation. They’re ten miles north of here, camped out in a flat, grassy area. They’d just arrived when I laid eyes on them. There are thousands of them, and they all moved with a purpose. It took about an hour for them to round the eighteen-wheelers into a square and lock them all together, but when they were done, it looked like a fortress. I mean, literally, a fortress. Then they started so many campfires that it turned the sky black with ash—it was almost like they were burning more than just wood. You can see it from the roof.”

  “Show me,” Rick said.

  Ben led the way upstairs. When they reached the roof, the enemy encampment was immediately evident. Ink black columns of smoke wafted up and twisted into the air, like massive tornadoes. The air smelled like burnt cooking oil.

  “What are they doing?” Rick asked.

  “It’s the ‘Gathering,’” Isaac whispered. “It’s going to be a lot worse come nightfall.”

  Rick looked at Ben. “Get on the radio and call the scouts and hunters in. We’ve run out of time.”

  “And spread the word,” Isaac added, “for everyone to gather near the Keep. We’re going to have a ‘Gathering’ of our own.”

  ***

  Once they completed the internal structure in Costco, Kate started calling it the Keep. It was not long before this phrase caught on and became its official name. Despite having room to bed everyone for the night, the structure was dark and cramped, and, consequently, whenever they all met together, they tended to gather just outside the large metal entrance. There were several hundred chairs already there, most of them in crooked lines that formed into a half-moon.

  Isaac started the meeting with a song and prayer, as they had always done, and then turned the time over to Rick. The large man knew that this moment would come, and he previously told Isaac that he did not have anything to say—to him, there was nothing else to be said. Isaac insisted, and before he knew it, Rick was in the front of the chairs, drawing everyone’s undivided attention.

  After a few silent moments, Rick spoke. “The Executor is here—”

  There were multiple gasps from the crowd, even though Rick was pretty sure everyone had already heard the news.

  He continued. “They have more men, but we are better trained. They are better armed, but we have a stronger defensive position. We have the Drones to spot the enemy, catapults, and Pigeon throwers to keep them at bay, the vehicle barriers and moat to slow their advance, the land mines to disorient them, and the Sniper and Murder holes to take them down piece by piece. Take comfort in the fact that we’re as prepared as we ever will be. Make your bullets count.” Then he stepped back and folded his arms, his face expressionless, his speech—apparently—complete.

  No one was sure if that was the end of the meeting or not—a few people in the back stood up. There was some scattered clapping, but this quickly turned into an awkward silence.

  Isaac approached the stage, ushering the Congregation to sit back down. He let out a slight laugh as he looked at his brother, “That’s Rick for you: quick and to the point with no sugar coating to ease the pain. He’s ready for this, he’s mentally prepared—I know he is—and so for him, there’s not much to say, everything now boils down to our actions. But that’s not how most of us operate. All of us are here for different reasons. We all knew that this day would come, and, despite that knowledge, we stayed. Right now, I want to hear from whoever wants to speak about the reasons why they’re here.”

  Isaac stepped back away from the center of the room and gestured to the crowd. “Whoever feels comfortable, please come up and share your thoughts.”

  Several moments passed before a man in the back stood up, his clothes puffing with dust as he moved. He was a tall, skinny man whose chin bristled with whiskers. His name was Blake Torgerson. “Do I come up there, or stay back here and talk?”

  “Go ahead and come up here,” Isaac said.

  Blake obeyed and planted himself behind the podium. “I’m an auto mechanic by trade. I never had time for no fancy school or nuttin’, but I know what’s right—I think all of us do—that’s why we’re still here. And it would be wrong for us not to do what we’re doin’ and to fight against them who needa good beatin’. I got no family, and I ain’t been much religious, but each of you is my family now, and that’s good enough for me.” The man returned to his seat in a less than dramatic fashion, tripping over a songbook as he did.

  Next, Hector approached the podium. He looked down as if the words of his speech were written on the ground. As he began to speak, he raised his eyes and stared at each Congregation member who would meet his gaze. “My family is here—and I do have kids. There are some serious bad hombres we’re facing, and I’m just glad I don’t have to face them alone. I don’t know his name, but that guy before me was right—we are family. I did not feel that way before the lights went out and, even though we’re the same people we were before, I feel that way now. I would die for each of you, and if that’s what’s required, so be it.” Hector sat down, and a woman took his place.

  The speakers continued on and on until dozens in the Congregation had spoken. The meeting became tearful as Emma Loveland confessed that she did not want to die—but that she would be more than willing to lay down her life for anyone in the Congregation. It took her several minutes to regain herself, but when she did, most eyes were sparkling with warm tears. Hours passed, yet everyone still listened attentively. Almost everyone had expressed at least a few words before the room fell silent.

  Finally, it was Isaac’s turn. His face was alre
ady wet with tears. He stood up, his hands squeezed together. “Never have I felt more love than I do now; never have I been so sure of who I am and what I’m doing. In this wicked world, the minority of good has always been pitted against the vast majority of evil. What we face now is no different than what the Prophet Elijah or Moses faced, or Jeremiah or Daniel—or even the Lord Christ himself. They did not shrink before death or pain. And neither shall we.

  “Whether you believe in God or not, whether you’ve ever read the Bible or not, all of us know the difference between good and evil. And what we face in the coming days is nothing more than the continuation of the same conflict that started when Cane first spilled the blood of Abel. This is the greatest conflict—the struggle between the very best of humanity and the very worst.” Isaac lowered his voice, “All that’s left to do is to decide which side we’re on.

  “But do not mistake me: That does not mean some of us will not die. All of us here stand for the right thing, but that does not mean we cannot fall. Death is often the price paid by good people during an evil time.

  “We need to be strong, as were Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego. When they were told to denounce what they believed to be right, they refused, even when they were threatened to be burned alive. To the great King Nebuchadnezzar they replied in words that have echoed for thousands of years. ‘If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace…he will deliver us out of thine hand. But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden image which thou has set up.’

  “These three youth had the courage we must now take up. They believed in something more than themselves. They believed that doing the right thing—even though it was harder—was more noble. In the coming days, hold onto your faith, whatever that may be. Faith is not faith if it is changed by challenges. Real challenges reveal true faith—good fortune conceals it.