by John Barnes
Jason timed off an hour by his watch before emerging to look at their tracks.
Their trail bent around the lake, away from the house where Chris and Larry were; no one had turned off where Jason’s faint tracks came in. Didn’t see them or didn’t care, I guess, and the fire probably wasn’t putting out any smoke you could see through the falling snow. Taking a roundabout way, wading briefly along the icy canal, he finally reached the little house just as the sun was setting. The snow was still falling.
They banked the fire and spread his clothes and moccasins before it. When Larry awakened Jason for his watch, his clothes were dry but no longer warm.
THE NEXT DAY. SYLVAN BEACH, ON ONE IDA LAKE, NEW YORK. 7 AM EST. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2025.
It was still snowing heavily. They’d found kids’ sleds hanging in the attic space, and each of them pulled a sled-load of canned goods. Their muscles were already aching by the time they had tossed the sleds in and loaded and launched the canoes, paddling along the lakeshore to the canal entrance; slush an inch thick floated on the lake’s surface, and on the canal.
All that day, they paddled to each successive lock dam, unloaded and portaged the canoes, sledded their packs and supplies down to the canoes, and resumed paddling; Jason guessed they were spending twice as much time portaging as paddling, but in the empty, dead country around them, they didn’t want to abandon the supplies that only the canoes could carry.
It was still snowing as it began to get dark, less than twenty miles beyond Oneida Lake. At the public access where they stopped, Larry said, “Now that we know whole armies of Daybreakers might come by, I don’t think we can risk a fire tonight.”
They pulled the two canoes almost face-to-face on a ground cloth, threw a camo tarp and some loose brush over the top, and crawled under to wolf down a can of beans and a can of salmon each; huddled as closely as they could, they went to sleep.
THE NEXT DAY. A LITTLE WEST OF DEERFIELD, NEW YORK. 6:50 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
Dawn crept under the canoes, and the men fidgeted, waking each other. The sun was an orange disk through the morning fog. They knocked snow off a picnic table, and risking a small fire in a grill, they fried Spam, heated canned potatoes and green beans, and warmed water from the hand pump to mix with condensed tomato soup.
“I hate to admit how good this is,” Jason said.
Larry rose from the table. “That well water is probably cleaner than anything we’ve seen in a while, and this fire will last a while; let’s dump our old containers, and boil enough water to refill them with clean, hot water, and then, unless you all want to do a little yoga or maybe linger over the sports page, I think there’s not much to do but get going.”
When they pushed off and paddled eastward the fog on the canal was so thick that they could not see the banks twenty feet away. Later that morning, the fog turned suddenly golden as the sun broke through. Not long after they slipped out of the rapidly dispersing fog. In front of them, dead trees clawed at the sky beyond the crooked silhouettes of burned buildings, and three naked bodies dangled by their necks from a pedestrian bridge, on which someone had painted
PLAZTATIC = DEATH
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 8:45 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
When Jeffrey Grayson stepped out onto his porch to inspect the day, it was a fine Georgia autumn, fit to make a man glad he lived here. Now if the Friday meeting of the Council were canceled, he could walk in the gardens with Jenny, take a long lunch outside, and spend the afternoon in bed. So when he had bathed, shaved, and put on his uniform, he still hung around for an extra moment, talking to Jenny, giving a cancellation one last chance to reach him, and just enjoying being with her. And maybe Reverend Whilmire had a point about the power of prayer, because just as Grayson put some extra time and effort into kissing Jenny at the door, a loud knock made them both jump.
Grayson tugged his uniform straight, and Jenny brushed his hair tenderly with her hand. When he opened the door, the messenger saluted and held out a note.
Grayson returned the salute, watched the man go, and tore open and read the note while standing in the open doorway. “Your father needs to confer with Reverend Peet, and Cameron Nguyen-Peters wants to get some more reports in before the Council meeting. Postponed till Monday!” He closed the door softly behind him and whooped like a loon.
Jenny winked, said, “Find something to kill five minutes,” and darted into their bedroom.
She emerged in a tight white dress with pink pumps. “Baby, I’m ready to take a walk in the gardens,” she said. “Harness up the trap.”
Grayson was proud that he’d learned to drive a one-horse trap just for fun, well before Daybreak, and Ironside had been his harness-horse for a couple of years before. It had always seemed so satisfying, more so once Jenny had entered his life. As they rolled through the brilliant green of the fields with Ironside’s hooves clopping away, Grayson thought any man who saw him with this carriage and this girl must be dying of envy.
They had gone more than a mile, about halfway to the former State Botanical Garden of Georgia, when he thought to ask, “Jenny-baby, how did you know this was what I most wanted to do in the whole world?”
“You were hanging around the house instead of charging off to your meeting, honey, it’s a beautiful day, and mornings like this are your favorite lead-in to afternoons in bed.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re perfect, Jenny?”
“You, almost every day. Keep it that way, ’kay, baby?” She moved to put her leg against his. “Well, I’m glad everyone is busy figuring things out among themselves, so you don’t have to be caught in the middle.”
“You mean between your father and Cam? They don’t like each other but they’ll both keep their bargains.”
“Daddy has been known to re-interpret what the original bargain was, and that weird little man has too. I wish you were a teensy bit more suspicious of him.”
“I don’t like him much either,” Grayson said, “but at the moment, he’s a stepping stone to the presidency, and I don’t see any reason to stomp on him.”
“Just watch that that stone doesn’t turn under you.” Workers on the roadside waved and yelled; Jenny turned to return the wave in a big, enthusiastic, cheerleader style. She sat back down and said, “Baby, you have to learn that you always at least give them a nod and a wave.”
“You were saying, about Cam—”
“I just can’t see what that weird little man really wants.”
“He’s probably the most honorable, principled guy I know,” Grayson said. “If he’s sure he’s right, you can’t change him or buy him or scare him, all you can do is kill him.”
“Are you afraid you might have to kill him?”
“I won’t want to. He’s been pretty straight with me even though we don’t agree. And our interests overlap. He wants there to be a president again—and a Congress and a Supreme Court and I suppose a Department of Transportation—and I want to be that president.”
“So as long as you’re his best candidate for president, you’re on the same side. What if he found a better one?”
“He’s got a lot of personal loyalty,” Grayson said.
“Aww, baby, didn’t mean to upset you.” She snaked a hand up his back, under his collar, rubbing his neck. “But you know, you do always tell me you don’t have a personal relationship with him, not really. Respect and cooperation is great, but he’s not, you know, family, or your BFF, or anything like that. I just think maybe you should watch him, a little. Now—let’s enjoy the day. Happy Halloween!”
Another great thing about life after Daybreak, Grayson thought, is that you can accept a long tender kiss while driving, because the horse knows enough to keep you on the road. They walked in the Botanical Garden like the first people on Earth, and if thoughts about Cam sometimes crept in among the shadows, they slipped away whenever he paid attention to anything else. With Jenny around, that was nearly always.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 10 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
Whilmire said, “No, at this point my sense of the public is that we cannot step up and guide the nation directly. The non-Christians, and even the well-meaning Christians in the other churches, won’t be ready for that till after the big war. We’re still early in Tribulation—it’s only the first year of the seven. So far neither the Whore of Babylon nor the Antichrist has clearly emerged, and that would be the earliest time we could make a really bold move. So we’re stuck with what we’re stuck with.”
The Reverend Arthur Peet nodded somberly. He had known Whilmire for most of both of their lives, and he knew the way the man’s mind diced and dissected the world into manageable slices. “So where should we throw our weight?”
“We’re just waiting for the right time, allies, and pretext to give Nguyen-Peters the boot. He counts for nothing. Weisbrod has zero following in TNG territory—Democrat-liberal-Jew professor? Forget him and his Dragon Lady wife. The fringy types in the little splinter churches are nuts and they scare people, which helps us look moderate to people who think moderation is a virtue. The Army has no leader except Grayson or Phat, and we’ve got Phat locked up physically and Grayson politically. So I say, for the moment, don’t do something. Stand there. But be ready to jump when the time comes.”
Peet nodded. “Very much my own thinking. Tribes? Castles?”
“We need the Castles economically, but they’re no big problem; we just gradually convert freeholders; ramp up some of that kingship and lordship material if you want to play for them. As for the tribes, the big drive that the Natcon and the general want to do up in the Lost Quarter will take them off the table next spring. Preach so you tie them to the Canaanites, that’s our promised land, that kind of thing.”
“What’s your assessment of your son-in-law?”
“He’ll be ready to step in as soon as it’s time, if Jenny has anything to do with it. I have much more faith in her than in him. He’ll come along as long as we feed his ambition and vanity.”
Peet shrugged. “Human tools are imperfect. The Lord Himself only hired twelve guys and one was a dud. So no real change?”
“Everything’s the same as last week but more so,” Whilmire said. “But it was pretty good last week.”
“Indeed.” Peet rose and stretched. “I think I’ll take a walk.”
As Whilmire descended the steps of the former UGA chapel, the sunshine was pure gold, and it hadn’t been windy or stormy enough down here yet to take the fall colors from the trees. Real time off was impossible, but at least he could work at a table outside at some café or tea house. So many people were waving, smiling, and calling out “Praise the Lord” to him that he thought he was maybe catching one tiny little glimpse of what heaven might be like.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 10 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
“Happy Halloween, General Phat.”
“Sorry, I’m not stocked up with candy, and I haven’t had the time to get into costume. How’s it going, Cameron?”
“Meh. Right now the Church and the Army are each hoping the other one will get sick of me first, eliminate me, and leave the more patient one with clean hands. Wish we were—” He saw Phat’s hard headshake, and the long piece of toilet paper he held up, scrawled with pencil:
Guards all changed yesterday, some too friendly, some too quiet, think someone is watching much more closely, assume we are overheard
“—ah, excuse me,” Cam said, coughing loudly. He took a strip of the toilet paper to eat. Phat followed suit. “Let’s start on the wine, it’s the best thing in my trick-or-treat basket.” He washed down the blob of paper with a swallow of wine, watching as Phat did the same. “God, the wine tastes good. And I brought bread and other stuff. I was going to say, wish we were free of all this politics crap, it’s a nice day and it would be great to parole you, go hang in the sunlight, and just cry into my beer, or my wine, for a while. It’s going to be a relief when they retire me.”
“Planning to go peaceably?”
“How else? It’s still America. But I’m still the only legitimate authority, and it’s my duty to hand off to the Constitutional government, not just whatever people in my neighborhood have the most guns, the biggest crowd in the street, or the Holy Zap from Reverend Peet. After I say no, whether it’s peaceable or not depends on them, I guess.”
They ate the rest of the toilet paper with the bread, thickly spread with butter. When they had finished, and enjoyed some wine-without-paper, Cameron thought, Well, they already know we talk politics. And we’re not going to fool them about what we think. But let’s encourage them to think we’re all talk and no action. “I wish I could tell you that you’re safe, but if they come for me, I suppose they might come for you.”
Phat leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Look, the bravest American of his generation said, ‘A man who won’t die for something is not fit to live.’ But down through history, smart soldiers have refused to be the last casualty on the losing side. And you and I are the last of our breed. Whatever the people to come are like, they won’t be us. It’s not the country, or the army, that we grew up to run. Have you noticed most of them call it the forces? when I was a kid, adults called it the service. You see? Different world, Cam, just plain different, and our world is fading away.”
“You think I should just step down and let whatever happen?”
“I’d never tell a man to run out on what he believed in. What I’m saying is all we can do is give the next version of our country the best start we can, then get out of their way, and try not to let whatever they make of it break our hearts.”
30 MINUTES LATER. ATHENS, TNG DISTRICT. 11:45 AM EST. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2025.
Reverend Arthur Peet liked to walk the path in Dudley Park along the North Oconee alone. Most days, he was completely alone on the trail.
Though the paving on the path was slowly coming apart as biotes ate the binding tars. It felt like gummy gravel under his feet. The river was ceaselessly changing and always the same; the fall colors gorgeous; before Daybreak he hadn’t realized how much mental energy went into shutting out other people’s engines, motors, yakking, and music.
On these walks, whenever he thought of something positive and uplifting, Naomi seemed to appear. Here she was again. Sometimes she would just walk with him for half a mile or more before speaking, or not speak at all, but today the scrawny girl with ash-blonde dreadlocks spoke almost at once. “Do you really think you should call it Tribulation?”
Peet shrugged. “It’s the English word for it, and everyone in any Bible-believing church knows what it means.”
“I suppose so. But how can you feel Tribulated on such a nice fall day? The colors so bright, the smells and sounds so sharp, and all you have to do is just walk along and listen to your feet swish, swish, swish in the leaves, swish swish swish…” She whirled, holding up her ankle-length hippie-girl skirt, dancing up and down the path in front of him. “You know I love our conversations. It’s so interesting to meet someone with a different take on Daybreak.”
“I’m glad I can help,” Peet said.
“I’m glad you can help too.” Naomi was back at his side. “And I hope I help you.”
“Certainly you help clarify my thoughts.”
“Here’s a thought I’ve been working with,” she said. “Just a thought. I know that traditionally the idea is that during the Rapture, people vanished because they were good.”
“Not necessarily good, as the world knows it, but Christian and believing and trying to be good,” Peet said, gently. “Real saints are always messier and always falling out of their sanctity, unlike plaster ones.”
“Organic all-natural free-range saints instead of plaztatic saints?”
He laughed. “I would use that in a sermon if ‘plaztatic’ didn’t have such a Daybreak connotation.”
“Oh, honestly—you! Should’ve been an English profess
or!” She had a provoking half-grin.
He clapped his hand to his chest. “Stabbed through the heart.”
She put her hand gently on his arm. “Anyway, my point was, what if the idea is backwards? It’s not that the people were good and therefore they were taken away; having been taken away, they became good.”
The idea made him feel strangely queasy, as if he’d just swallowed something he shouldn’t. “How so? I’m not following.”
“Notice how quiet and lovely it is here? Notice how soft both our voices can be and yet we understand each other perfectly? Notice how much of the natural music there is in the air, and how much the world is better since Daybreak?”
“Except,” he said, “almost everyone is dead.”
“Except or because?”
Before he could ask what she meant, she had disappeared.
Three small boys came around a bend in the trail. They carried cane poles, slingshots, and sharpened sticks; probably they’d be contributing to their families’ dinners tonight. Swift and silent, they darted around him and were gone into the brush on the other side.
Good or dead, Peet mused. Or good and dead. Or the only good one’s a dead one. He was sorry Naomi had left so quickly. He’d have liked to talk more. He sat down on a rock and watched the river roll by. When a bird’s cry startled him, he sat up with a sense of well-rested contentment. According to his watch, it was past time for lunch.