Chapter 21
She was dead. The girl was gone.
Belle.
The tears could not flow hard enough to dampen the pain Missy felt. She’d been holding Belle when she exhaled her last breath. That final grasp for life as it caressed the girl’s lips. She was just a kid; she had a whole life before her.
How could this happen? Why? Who were these men?
Missy allowed the sobs to choke past her raw and burning throat. It had happened again. The fire. She could not control it.
There was so much she could not control.
Her life was no longer her own, it seemed. The trek north, the multiple attempts on her life, the fire—were they all orchestrated by someone or something outside her realm of control? She was a pawn at the mercy of some greater force. The greater force. She needed to trust, to have faith she was in hands that cared for her and loved her, but it didn’t seem that way. She felt like a target and had good reason to doubt.
Anger washed over her. Not because of what she’d been thrust into, not because she’d become some freak in her own right, vomiting fire and taking lives, but because Belle was too young to die. Like this. Here in the woods. At the hands of such evil men. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t love.
Love would not allow this to happen.
Love would have spared the kid’s life, given her a chance to grow up, to live, to find love for herself.
This was cruel.
.......
Andy ran to Missy and Belle. Maybe . . . maybe Belle was not dead at all, only unconscious. Maybe the shot hadn’t been fatal, and she could be patched up. They’d need to get her to a hospital.
Missy lay across Belle’s motionless body, sobbing. When Andy arrived and dropped to his knees, she said, “It happened again, didn’t it?”
Andy stroked Missy’s hair. Her cheeks and forehead were smeared with dirt. “Yes.”
With numb hands, he felt Belle’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. She lay in a puddle of blood. Both eyes were slightly opened; her lips blue and parted. She was gone.
The words landed like a boulder in Andy’s mind.
Belle. Was. Gone.
Missy sobbed harder. “Why? Why did they do this?”
Andy had no answer. He had no idea why they were being stalked, hunted like fugitives. He had no answers for how their pursuers kept finding them. He put his hand on Missy’s shoulder, but she brushed it off. The sobs came in great coughs now and racked her thin frame. She managed to bark out words between sobs. “Why are they trying to kill us?”
After a few seconds, Missy fell into Andy’s arms and buried her face in his chest. He held her close and stroked her hair. They sat in the dirt. Andy had nothing to say. No answers for Missy. Anger and sorrow washed over him and collided like waves in the surf. He knew what Missy hadn’t yet realized: they weren’t trying to kill them; they were trying to kill her.
The old man’s words came back to him again: The girl . . . this is about her. All of it. She’s something special.
Something special. So special that she must be dangerous to someone, a threat. And that someone has the resources to track them down and keep the vigilantes coming.
They needed to find the nameless old man again . . . or hope that he’d find them. He had answers. He knew what was going on. What was it he said? I’ll see you in Boston? Where? When? The man spoke in riddles.
Missy’s sobs had calmed some; she placed a hand on Belle’s head. “She was just a kid.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t deserve this.”
“I know.”
“What are we gonna do?” She turned her face upward.
With her swollen eyes and red cheeks, Missy looked as helpless as a lost child. Andy’s heart ached for her. She lived in a world of darkness populated only by sounds and smells and explored by the tips of her fingers. He was glad she couldn’t see Belle at this moment and glad she hadn’t witnessed the violence he’d unleashed on their assailants. She’d unleashed her own brand of violence, and it was probably best she hadn’t witnessed that as well.
“We need to bury her and get out of here,” Andy said. “We don’t know if there are more coming.”
Missy’s eyes darkened and her face tightened. “More? How? Why? Why can’t they leave us alone?” The tears started again.
Andy stood and helped Missy to her feet. “I don’t know. But we’ll figure this out. I’m going to search the trucks for a shovel.”
She turned her face up. “We can’t bury her here.”
Andy paused to allow Missy to figure out the predicament herself.
She interpreted his silence correctly. “Right. I’ll stay here with her.”
Andy found a shovel in the back of one of the pickups and dug a shallow grave for Belle about fifty yards into the woods. The ground was dry but loosely packed.
When Belle’s body was in the grave and covered with dirt and rocks, Andy told Missy about the old man and the meeting they’d had at the bar. He didn’t tell her, though, about what the man had said about her. She had enough to worry about and didn’t need to carry the burden that his statement brought with it.
He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “C’mon. We need to get to Boston. We’ll get answers there.”
Chapter 22
After The Event, sanctuary cities were set up throughout the country. Twenty in all. Most of the country was devastated, the population decimated. The National Guard, in its attempt to bring under control an animal population that had gone rogue, had destroyed major portions of the nation’s cities and suburban areas. When everything—without explanation—returned to a new sense of normal, the rebuilding began. The twenty sanctuary cities were the first to receive federal funding to clean up, repair, and rebuild. In the northeast, Boston, New York City, and Philadelphia were the designated sanctuary cities. People flocked to those cities by the thousands—some homeless looking to start a new life, many suffering from both physical and emotional trauma, most having lost someone they loved either to The Taking or to the animals. The national mourning continued for years.
When Andy and Missy arrived at the edge of Boston, they were stopped at a checkpoint. All the sanctuary cities had checkpoints. With so many refugees filtering in from around the country, these cities needed to maintain order and to monitor who came and left.
The checkpoint along Route 1A was nothing more than two state trooper cruisers and three troopers. One of them stopped the SUV with a raised hand and walked around to the driver’s side.
“Afternoon, folks.” He scanned the interior of the SUV with steady, serious eyes. “Driver’s license and registration, please.”
Andy handed the trooper his license as Missy rifled through the glove box for the registration. When she found it, she handed it to Andy who passed it along to the trooper.
“Kentucky, huh?” the trooper said, studying Andy’s license.
“Yes sir.”
“Why are you coming to Boston?”
“To meet a friend.”
The trooper lifted his eyes and stared at Andy, taking in the full image of Andy’s deformities. “Friend, huh?” He glanced at the registration. “Your name isn’t on this registration.”
“I know. We borrowed it from a friend. Reliable vehicles are hard to come by in some areas.”
“A friend in Pennsylvania?”
Andy nodded.
“What’s this friend’s name?”
Andy froze. He had no idea. He hadn’t looked at the registration before handing it to the trooper.
Missy leaned closer to the open window. “Actually, they’re friends of mine. Rick and Diane Summers. They live near Harrisburg.”
The trooper handed the license and registration back to Andy. “All right, folks. Enjoy Boston. And stay out of trouble, you hear?”
“Certainly, officer,” Andy said.
He rolled up the window and moved slowly through the checkpoint. On the other si
de, he turned to Missy. “How did you know that?”
She smiled, the first one she’d given Andy since they left the campground. “While you were showering, Belle rooted through the glove box and told me the car belonged to Richard Summers of Mechanicsburg. She said that was near Harrisburg.”
Andy reached across the seat and touched Missy’s hand.
“Belle is still helping us,” Missy said.
.......
They made their way down Washington Street, past residential homes and small businesses, past parks and strip malls, saying very little to each other. The old man had said he’d meet them here in Boston, but where? Boston covered nearly ninety square miles. How could they possibly find him?
Near the center of town, Andy noticed signs for Boston Common, a community park. He followed West Street to Tremont, then circled the park until he found a parking place on Beacon Street near Frog Pond.
“Why did we stop?” Missy said.
“I think we both need some fresh air,” Andy said. “We need to collect our thoughts.”
“Agreed. Where are we?”
“Boston Common.”
“The park?”
“You’ve been here?”
“No. But I’ve heard of it.”
To walk through Boston Common one would think The Event never happened. The grass was as green as leprechaun blood, and the trees were fully leafed and full of life. The city must have spent considerable money to irrigate the entire park. An oasis in the middle of a desolate and barren world.
Near the pond, Missy stopped and pressed herself against Andy’s side. She drew in a deep breath. “What does it look like? It smells fresh and green.”
“It looks green. Everything is green. Do you have memories of what the world used to look like before?”
“Those are the only memories I have.”
“How do you imagine it, then?”
“Green. Lush. Fertile. Full of life. For the past ten years, I’ve smelled and felt nothing but death and dryness and . . . nothingness. This is different. It’s alive.”
“Yes, it is. Very much so.”
Andy led Missy around the pond to a bench. Shortly after The Event, the news networks had transmitted images of bodies floating in this pond. There’d been so much slaughter in Boston, in most of the large cities. Before the animals went nuts, humans had created the chaos. Rioting. Looting. Murders. Mostly driven by fear of the unknown and unexplained. Then the animals arrived. Dogs, cats, coyotes, wolves, even bears. They migrated to the most populated areas where the prey was most concentrated.
“What does the pond look like?” Missy asked.
“It’s shallow, just a couple feet. Maybe two hundred feet by fifty feet. The water is clear, like a pool. Can you hear the kids splashing in it?”
“I can hear them laughing. It’s nice to hear laughter, isn’t it?”
It was nice to hear laughter. Andy’s life had never been one conducive to laughter. His life—what he could remember of it—had been marked with hardship and adversity. “It is.”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh,” she said.
“I don’t laugh much. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed much.”
A voice from behind them startled Andy. “You used to laugh a lot.”
Andy turned and saw the old man standing by himself, hands in his pockets.
Missy turned her face toward Andy. “He’s here?”
“Yes.”
The man came around and stood before them. “You laughed a lot as a child. You were happy then.” He motioned toward the bench. “Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all,” Andy said. “Are you Ben Baxter?”
The old man sat and crossed his legs. He shook his head thoughtfully. “No. Ben was taken with the rest of them. I knew him, though. Knew him well. And your mother. And you when you were a boy, no higher than my waist.”
“How did you know them?”
The man ran his gaze over the pond and pursed his lips. “That’s another story. For another time. I knew Ben from our seminary days. He introduced me to your mother.” He grew quiet for a moment, let his eyes shift to the trees, then to the sky. “Did I mention he was taken?”
“You did.”
“I guess I did.”
“What’s your name?”
“Clem.”
“How’d you find us?” Andy asked.
The old man looked at Andy. “We’ll get to that. I don’t have a lot of time. They’ll be here soon.”
Chapter 23
Let’s start with this,” Andy said. “Who exactly are you?”
“A friend. I got to know your mother through Ben. I’m sorry she’s gone.”
“She spoke of Ben many times but never mentioned anyone named Clem.”
“She would have known me as Clement. But I don’t suppose she would have mentioned me. No real reason to.”
“So what does that have to do with us?” Missy asked.
Clem paused and surveyed the area again. He took his time, pausing to watch a couple of walkers about a hundred yards away. Finally, he turned his attention to Andy and Missy again. “You’re probably wondering about your . . . abilities.”
Andy reached for Missy’s hand but kept his eyes on Clem. “My mom told me I was different.”
Clem nodded. “That’s one way to put it. You are very different.” He stroked his chin and furrowed his brow as if contemplating how to proceed. “Are you familiar with any of the popular Bible stories? Creation, the flood?”
“Sure. My mom took me to Sunday school.”
Clem looked at Missy. “Are you, young lady?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Good. Are you familiar with the Nephilim in Genesis?”
Andy had never heard the word before. “No.”
“The sons of God,” Missy said.
Clem nodded. “Yes. The sons of God. Fallen angels.”
“Their offspring were giants, men of renown.”
“They were Nephilites,” Clem said. “The product of unholy unions between women and the sons of God.”
“Fallen angels,” Missy said.
“Demons,” Andy added.
“The Nephilim were special. They were”—Clem glanced at Andy—“different. Men of great strength who did remarkable things and became known for their might and superhuman abilities. Many think they are the source of ancient mythological heroes and even the superheroes we have today.”
Andy’s skin burned and tightened along the back of his scalp and neck. His pulse quickened and throbbed in his throat and ears. His mother had rarely spoken of his father. But when she had, it was usually to note how evil he was.
Clem stared at Andy. “When your mother was in college, she met a man who claimed to love her. He didn’t. He was evil and had evil intentions. You were conceived, which was something your mother was never sorry about. But your father. He . . .”
“He was a demon.”
Clem sighed. “Yes.”
“Which makes me a Nephilite.”
Missy squeezed his hand. “Different.”
At that moment, Andy could have sworn the earth froze and time stood still. Nothing else registered. Not Clem’s voice. Not Missy’s touch. Not the laughter and squeals of the children playing in the pond. Not the dogs barking in the park. Nothing but that word echoing through his mind: different.
He looked at Clem. “I’m part demon.”
“You’re human,” Clem said. “It’s the only way you could have been conceived. Somehow, some way, demons found a way to take on human form. To appear human in every way. And then it happened again. And you weren’t the only one conceived.”
“There are others like me?”
“Yes.”
“Trevor?”
“No. There’s more going on here than you can imagine.”
“I can imagine an awful lot,” Missy said.
Clem tightened his lips, then said, “Not this.” He looked around again, allow
ing his gaze to linger on a few folks walking in the park. One man in particular, a young guy walking a Doberman on the other side of the pond, seemed to catch his interest. He glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time.” He spoke quickly and deliberately. “The book of Revelation talks about—”
From across the pond, the man with the Doberman shouted something, then broke into a run, the dog keeping pace with him.
Clem frowned, scratched the back of his neck. He looked from Andy to Missy to the running man, then back at Andy. His face tightened and deep furrows creased his brow. “You two need to get out of here.”
Andy didn’t move.
“Now,” Clem said. The intensity in his eyes said he was serious. “Go.” He pointed behind them, toward their SUV. “Get to Portland. Look for Amos. Or he’ll find you.”
“Portland?” Andy was confused.
Missy stood and tugged on Andy’s arm. “Maine.”
Clem glanced at the man now rounding the far corner of the pond. “This may be the last time we’ll speak. Revelation eleven. Now go.” He turned and ran toward the man and the dog.
Andy took Missy’s hand and led her away from the bench and toward the SUV. At Beacon Street, he turned in time to see Clem and the man clash at the edge of the pond. The dog launched itself at Clem, taking hold of his leg. Walkers and waders screamed and scattered.
“What is it?” Missy asked, concern etched on her face.
“We need to go.” Andy looked around and spotted three men heading their way. They seemed disinterested in the commotion occurring at the pond and singularly focused on Andy and Missy. All three were large, shaved heads, sunglasses. Bouncer-types. They wore khakis and polo shirts. Combat boots. When their gaze met Andy’s, all three broke into a run.
“Come on.” Andy had only a second to decide whether to stay and fight or run and find a place to regroup. He chose to run. He gripped Missy’s hand tighter and pulled her along.
Midnight Is My Time Page 11