by Mich Moore
don't want to die today.' I could hear the guys calling my name. 'Ivy! Ivy, get out here!' But I didn't go. I couldn't. I snuck out the back and went to the mess tent. Nobody was there."
He waited for dramatic pause. "I hit myself in the head with a hammer until I passed out. Later I told cappy that a VC must have snuck in and attacked me."
"What happened to the other men?" Pastor Walsh asked.
"Oh, they all made it back." General Hughes snorted. "A rare event in those days." He twisted a corner of his bed sheet around a finger. "God hates a coward."
"General, would you like to ask God for forgiveness?"
The general nodded as large tears fell from his eyes. "I believe so. He knows why I did it. But I hope that He'll find it in His heart to forgive me."
The pastor felt eyes on him. Bruce and Rose were watching him with an almost human intensity. He accepted their stares.
"Then let's pray together."
The pastor took a good minute to get the Bible and himself down onto the hard, cold floor beside the general's bed. He had to hold onto the bed rails to keep from falling. When he was finally in position, he began to pray for the soul of General Ivy Hughes.
He stayed there for almost half an hour before he became too exhausted to continue. Then he pulled himself back up into his chair. The pastor caught his breath before he moved to position the Bible back onto his lap. The general had broken off all contact and was now turned away from him, facing the window. Good. Maybe he can sleep more soundly tonight, Pastor Walsh thought.
The eyes were upon him again. It did not make him uncomfortable. He instinctively knew that the machines were curious about their world and the people in it. Just like any bright child would be. His mind drifted to next week's sermon. What would he say? That God had created man and woman? And that now man had created ... what? A person? Well, it was a moot point. He was sworn to secrecy. But still ... if he could talk to the people ... What would he say?
He gently regarded Bruce and Rose. Was there true intelligence behind those artificial eyes? And if so, was this world going to be instructive for that intelligence? A world full of venom and greed and lust? Would they ultimately find peace here or an unfathomable hell? He tortured himself a little while longer with such thoughts before drifting off.
Pastor Walsh was fast asleep when the loud thwack reached his ears and shook him awake. He looked around, startled. One of the nurses had turned off the reading light on the general's nightstand, and the ward sat in near darkness. And then he noticed that his Bible was missing. His eyes scanned the floor as best as they could. Within a few seconds he spotted the book, splayed open in an uncouth manner beneath General Hughes's bed. It must have slipped off his lap and slid a ways. Now he became fully alert. A possibly filthy floor was fine for an unworthy man but not for the word of God. He leaned over and fully extended his arm down in order to reach it. However, he was a good fourteen centimeters short. He would have to get up and then get back down on his knees again. God, please give this old body Your strength one more time. He stood and grabbed onto the bed rail. Just as he was about to lower himself to the cold floor again, a thin, dark arm with fine fur and scales appeared from beneath the bed, clutching his Bible.
"Bruce?"
Pastor Walsh grabbed the Bible from the tiny hand and then hurriedly switched the nightstand lamp back on. Bruce and Rose were still lying next to the general ... and still watching him.
"Who's there?" he asked loudly.
Walters stirred and murmured, "Shhh."
A bad dream, he decided.
It finally occurred to him to check on Hughes. He placed his ear near the man's mouth and watched his chest. Hughes was wheezing and his breathing was somewhat erratic. But his lungs sounded strong. The pastor briefly considered calling the nurse but decided against it. The day nurse would have fresher eyes on the general's condition. Besides, he didn't appear to be in any pain. Pastor Walsh sat down again, his mind on next week's sermon.
Two hours later the night shift nurse arrived to make her last rounds on the officers' ward before handing her patients over to the day staff.
Not surprisingly, General Hughes had expired. She noted the time of death and switched off all of his monitoring equipment. She had specific instructions to notify his treating physician right away. As she turned to go, she caught sight of a pair of thin legs resting on the floor. It was Pastor Walsh. His body lay crumpled at the foot of the general's bed. She immediately reached down to feel for his pulse. "Pastor Walsh?"
But his hands were already cold and hard. Her heart sank. "No!" she cried out. "Please don't leave us!"
The sleeping men around her began to stir and awaken as she wept.
4
April 20 was their last full day in Chicago. Through informal discussions, Chang admitted that while they had no way of knowing whether the Enlightened Dead Tour had been successful, time and further testing back at Redstone would soon let them know. On that last day, the team had spent the better part of dawn packing their belongings and making sure that the buses were travel-worthy. After a group breakfast at Gibson's Southern Kitchen, Hillerman and Brady led them on a short walking tour. Under heavily overcast skies, they first trouped south and then east on East Chicago Avenue. As soon as they left the small business district and entered the residential sections, it became clear that all was not well in Chicagoland. The first clue was that the timing seemed to be a bit off. Peace signs were on everything: buildings, vehicles, designer dogs, bicycles. The first floors of entire buildings had been repurposed to serve as canvases for painted sunflowers and poppies, grinning whales and dolphins, flying unicorns, baskets of fruit, and dancing cows. The second clue was that cannabis smoke practically belched from the open windows of flats and homes. There were easily two police cruisers parked on each block, but either they did not notice the illegal smoke in the air or they were not giving it much attention. Either scenario seemed unlikely. The third clue, while already known, was the most unsettling. For even here, in a citadel city, flush with cash and properly fed employees, literally untouched by the evil events that had physically destroyed significant parts of the country, people were living their lives inside out. Fancy settees stood back-to-back with king-sized beds. Twenty-meter extension cords snaked from almost every front door to power outdoor televisions and computers. Most people were apparently content to cook on simple grills, but some of the wealthier folk were building elaborate brick ovens to complement six-burner gas stoves. Framing for outdoor bathrooms was going up. Obviously they expected to stay in camping mode for the long haul.
A heavy mist tinged with ocre began falling down around them, suddenly obscuring the buildings, the trees, even the parked cars.
It was proving to be unnerving for some of them. Bautista stopped in his tracks and asked, "What's going on? Where is this all headed?"
"We don't know," Brady replied. "This area of the country hasn't seen much disaster. But there are some pretty wild rumors. Some people are scared."
"What kind of rumors?" Powell asked.
"UFOs," Hillerman replied. "Big, nekkid giants flying around, kidnapping women."
The others looked at each other but said nothing. They resumed walking, turning south again on North Lake Shore Drive. At this distance from the lake, the fog was thicker. But it was here that the atmosphere of forced joviality so prevalent in the neighborhoods gave way to good old-fashioned American exuberance. Hundreds of cheering, whistling, flag-waving people were lined up along the Drive. Thousands of joyous, raucous more were on the beach itself.
Hillerman hopped up on a bench and pointed towards the lake. "Welcome to America!"
As if on cue, the fog and clouds overhead parted dramatically to reveal the newly constructed Chicago Navy, framed against a stunningly blue sky.
The team watched open mouthed as battleship after battleship slipped out of Navy Pier and shouldered its way out onto the open lake, easily slicing through the rough whitecaps. Tugboats and nuisa
nce sailboats, tiny blips compared to the warships, danced precariously around the massive vessels while Chicago fire boats flanked them on either side, their fire pumps spraying graceful plumes of water before their sharp bows. It was an awesome sight and an impressive display of force. That it was taking place half a hundred meters from the shores of a major city made it even more thrilling.
"Where are they going?" Walters asked.
Hillerman waggled his cigar. "Up north. They're going to light up Milwaukee."
Walters nodded with understanding. "They're delivering power?"
Hillerman chuckled. "You might say that. Milwaukee issued an ultimatum to Washington last week: Either we open up their supply lines and give them one billion cash, or they dump one hundred tons of raw sewage into the lake."
Broussard shrugged. "What's the problem? They were probably doing that before the war."
"We're talking untreated waste. The lakes have the most fresh water around these parts. They can't be held hostage by anyone. So the Chicago Navy has been given authority to settle the matter."
"No negotiating?" Powell asked.
Hillerman spat. "You can't negotiate with terrorists."
"I find it hard to believe that everyone is okay with this," Chang murmured, clearly moved by what he was seeing.
"Everyone is not okay with this." And as if to punctuate his words, a large