The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  “Sure.”

  His landline rang and he got out of bed. “Hello?”

  “Nice story, Julian.”

  Weizak hung up.

  “Who was it?” Rachel pulled the blanket tight around her.

  “Just a wrong number.”

  News Alert

  Vice President Christopher O’Rourke has reportedly committed suicide following President Hari Rhodes’s televised address tonight. According to sources, the vice president used a hunting rifle to kill himself. Paramedics were called by his wife, and he was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Nineteen

  February 15

  President Rhodes stood as Donna Lopez entered the Oval Office. She wore a black dress, presumably out of respect for O’Rourke. At forty-four, she was an attractive woman, which had worked against her when Rhodes had first appointed her secretary of state.

  “Good morning.” Rhodes touched her arm.

  “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  He gestured for her to sit. “I hope you’re ready to assume your duties.”

  Donna sat opposite the massive oak desk. “I am. I only wish it was under better circumstances.”

  Rhodes took his seat. “Chris’s suicide was a real tragedy. I’ll miss his wisdom and good humor, his fiery temper. But our jobs would be just as grave if he was still alive today.”

  Donna nodded.

  “I know you’re aware there was a lot of resistance against your new appointment. Fortunately, Congress is in a considerably weakened state. Some members have returned to their home states, while others have openly abandoned their positions. It seems that without the possibility of reelection, they have no interest in governing.”

  “It’s dereliction of duty.”

  “Let them spend what time they have with their families. Every citizen deserves the same chance, even if we expect our elected officials to hold themselves to a higher standard for the good of the country. I asked you here without Austin to discuss our personal goals for the nation. I’d like a direct dialogue with you, so don’t hold back out of deference to my position.”

  “Of course.”

  “After only six weeks, our prisons are overflowing and our makeshift prisons are filled to capacity. In another six weeks, the situation will be unmanageable. What do you think we should do?”

  The new vice president took a moment to answer. “If we’re to accept recent revelations at face value, then I don’t see how we have any choice. We have to order the executions of every disordered person in custody.”

  Rhodes studied her. She was a cool customer. “You’re talking about a lot of bodies.”

  “I don’t see any other way for us to survive. If we allow these possessed people to remain alive, it’s just a matter of time before we have mass escapes and murders and they outnumber us. For the sake of humanity—”

  Rhodes raised one finger. “If every one of us faces the same inevitable fate, what good can come from staining our national conscience?”

  “You’re speaking to American ideals.”

  “American and humanitarian.”

  “According to our calculations, on December 31, 844,000 US citizens will still be human—if they haven’t already been killed. We owe that day to them.”

  “There are seven billion people on earth.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Should we kill 850,000 people a day for the next ten months to preserve a modicum of security for 850,000 on their last day?”

  “I believe we should. That’s close to a million people. Any one of them might find a solution to this. It’s our nature to keep looking, keep fighting.”

  “And who are we to say these disordered people are no longer human? With minor exceptions, they look just like you and me. They breathe like us, eat like us, sleep like us. They are us.”

  Donna offered a tight smile. “Forgive me, but I think we should stop referring to these beings as disordered individuals and start calling them what we believe they are: possessed persons. Their bodies may be human but their souls aren’t. By your own words, we’re under attack by damned souls. Demons.”

  Rhodes sighed. “Under almost any scenario, on January 1 of next year the entire human race will be possessed. If we cease to exist, what’s gained by destroying our enemies? Should we level our cities, ensuring that no infrastructure remains for them? What if we’re merely erasing all traces of our own existence?” He sat forward. “What if by committing so many executions—murder, according to clergy—we’re damning our own souls? Now that we know souls exist, shouldn’t we be concerned about what happens to our own as we sing our swan song?”

  “Fair enough. But what about the leapfrogs? If it turns out they’re immune to possession, then they’re mankind’s only chance for survival beyond this year. Should we leave them at the mercy of monsters who want nothing more than their genocide? We’re the leaders of the most powerful nation on earth. If the leapfrogs escape possession, they’re our constituents, not these demons. I see no moral dilemma in that.”

  Rhodes drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about. For the next two weeks, we implement every plan we can to protect our citizens. On March 1, we’ll see what additional measures need to be taken.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Watching her leave, he knew she was right.

  God help me, he thought.

  February 16

  Weizak flew from JFK to Buffalo. The flight was expensive, but he didn’t wish to drive with so much on his mind, so he asked Joe Rosen to book the flight on the Daily Post’s account. The new airport security frustrated him, but he understood the need for it. On the flight he sat next to a loudmouthed businessman who insisted that God was punishing mankind for homosexuality and abortion.

  On the drive to Jamestown in his rental car, he adjusted the radio to a news station. Church attendance had increased, but so had the suicide rate. Vice President O’Rourke had been one of hundreds who killed themselves overnight. Weizak enjoyed the drive, with its view of trees and fields and grape vineyards, all covered in clean white snow, not the gray slush that soaked Manhattan. The stretch of Western New York felt rural and quaint, at least from the highway.

  When he entered Jamestown, a city with a population of thirty-two thousand, the buildings seemed smaller than they had the last time he had passed through two years earlier. He took a mini-tour of his hometown, driving by his high school and the park where he had hung out as a boy and the cemetery where he and his friends had searched for the oldest marker. (The dates had rubbed off many of them, making such a discovery impossible.) He didn’t recognize most of the shops, many of which had closed down anyway. Jamestown had once been the “Furniture Capital of the World,” and although many of the wood factories had moved elsewhere, the workforce continued to manufacture mattresses.

  But for how much longer?

  Weizak had never felt comfortable growing up in the blue-collar environment and had dreamed of moving to New York City. He followed a side street to another and another after that, then located the familiar Victorian house. It had been gray with white trim when he attended high school, which had made him ashamed. Before his death, his father had replaced the siding with vinyl, which appeared to have held up. His mother’s pickup sat in the driveway, which had not been shoveled, and Weizak’s Ford almost got stuck in the snow.

  After switching off the engine, he stood in snow and removed his suitcase from the trunk. As he made his way onto the covered porch, the front door opened and his mother, Edna, stood there: a little heavier, her hair completely white, but indisputably the woman who had raised him. She wore a thick sweater, jeans, and boots.

  “Hello,” she said, hugging him and kissing his cheek.

  “It’s great to see you.”

  They went inside and he looked around the house. Very little had changed. The furniture and carpeting may have been somewhat new, but their colors seemed identical to those that
had been there before. He wasn’t used to seeing his father’s shotgun on the table, though.

  “What’s that doing out?” he said. His father had been a hunter and a fisherman and had shown disappointment that Weizak hadn’t followed in his footsteps.

  “Do you think New York City is the only place under attack? I have to protect myself. Do you remember Luke Divine from your class? And Peter Tuning? Rod Durick? Let’s just say that they won’t be attending your next high school reunion, not that you ever bothered going to any.”

  Weizak imagined the faces of his old classmates, certain that he’d have found them unrecognizable as adults. “None of those guys were my friends. They beat me up when I was little and tormented me when I got older.”

  “You always were sensitive.”

  “Growing up fat in a small town is motivation never to return as an adult.”

  “Jamestown is a city.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’ve lost weight. It looks good.”

  “Thanks. I notice you didn’t shovel the driveway.”

  “I’m sixty years old. Why should I shovel the driveway? I have a truck. You can shovel it if you want.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You never shoveled it as a kid, either. Do you want some cocoa?”

  He mulled it over. “I’m okay. What’s for dinner?”

  “You may find this hard to believe, but I don’t cook much anymore. I’m on my way to meet with some friends. There’s lettuce and cold cuts in the refrigerator if you want to fix yourself something.”

  “I just got here.”

  “I have a life of my own, you know.”

  Weizak watched his mother exit the house, climb into her truck, and drive off. He carried his suitcase upstairs to the bedroom he had shared with his brother as a kid. Their beds were still there, though the Star Wars bedcovers had been replaced by generic linen. His journalism awards and Ethan’s trophies and all their photos were gone as well. He tossed his suitcase onto Ethan’s bed and put his clothes away, then kicked off his shoes and crawled over the covers of his bed and took a nap.

  It was dark outside when Weizak woke up, and he went downstairs and made a sandwich. There was no mayonnaise, and when he cut the sandwich in half he shivered. Moving to the thermostat in the dining room, he smiled. Sixty degrees. Even at the end of the world, his mother kept the house cold to save money. He raised the temperature to sixty-nine—as long as it was under seventy he could hold her at bay—and sat on the floor next to the heating vent and ate the sandwich.

  When his bones had warmed he moved to the couch and watched the local news: school closings, traffic accidents, and funeral announcements, followed by man-in-the-street reactions to President Rhodes’s address two nights ago.

  He retrieved his laptop from his suitcase, but his mother didn’t have wireless Internet service, so he sat at her computer hutch and switched on her clunky machine. At least she had a good connection. Around the globe, millions of people held vigils and prayer meetings. In the United States, churches and synagogues had around-the-clock services. President Rhodes announced a mandatory national ID card for citizens of all ages. He said the card would enable law enforcement agencies to better track individuals according to their birthdays and would be necessary for all travel and purchases. Zealots wasted no time labeling him the Antichrist.

  His mother came home during the network news, which basically repeated everything Weizak had already read online.

  “The news is so glum,” she said. “How can you enjoy life when you’re fixated on so much misery?”

  Weizak turned the TV off. “I report the news. Besides, you’re the one with a shotgun on your table.”

  She took off her coat, pulled off her boots, and walked over to the thermostat. Without commenting, she lowered the temperature.

  “How was your dinner?”

  “Oh, it was fine. Loraine’s hip is bad, and Lizbeth is moving to Chicago to stay with her daughter. I guess this is a time for families to reunite. Speaking of which, when was the last time you spoke to your brother?”

  Weizak searched his brain. “I don’t know.”

  “Janie left him and took the boys with her. I can’t say I blame her. Once the tax evasion charges came down, Ethan started drinking even more than usual, and I’m sure he hit her. At least he managed to stay out of jail.”

  “Rich pricks like him usually do.”

  She sat beside him. “He misses them, which means he’s drinking even more. I’m sorry to say I don’t have any sympathy for him. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why not? You finally have a career and you’ve lost weight. What are you doing wrong?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “People want to be close to someone now. I hate the idea of you being alone at the end.”

  “I won’t be alone; I’ll have a planet full of damned souls to keep me company.”

  “You always did have a peculiar sense of humor.”

  His mother brought out some photo albums, and they spent an hour looking through them and reminiscing. Weizak studied a square photo of himself and Ethan as boys standing before their father, who crouched on one knee. Each boy clutched a fish on a line in one hand and a fishing pole in the other.

  “God, I remember that day like it was yesterday,” Weizak said. “Time goes by so fast, and it seems to be passing even faster now.”

  “That’s because it is. Time speeds up as we get older, because we’re approaching the end. Now everyone is reaching their end.”

  Weizak squeezed her hand. “Are you scared about next week?”

  “No, but thanks for asking. I’m ready to go. I don’t want to see what’s coming down the turnpike next.”

  At 8:00 p.m. she turned on the TV and watched her favorite sitcom, an inane bit of fluff. Weizak enjoyed seeing his mother laugh, even if the predictable jokes made him wonder why he was the one with the peculiar sense of humor. News alerts scrolled along the bottom of the screen throughout each show.

  At 10:00 his mother stood and stretched. “Well, that’s it for me. I don’t watch the police procedurals.”

  Weizak stood. “Good night, Mom.”

  She hugged him. “I’m glad you came. It’s good seeing you again. I wish your brother showed as much consideration.”

  After his mother had gone upstairs, Weizak went into the kitchen and searched for some alcohol to stiffen his nerves, but of course he didn’t find any, so he poured himself a glass of cranberry juice instead. He picked up the envelope his mother had left on the table. Inside he found her personal documents, including the deed to the house. Setting the envelope down, he went back into the living room and watched the crime show his mother had avoided. The wind howled outside, blowing snow against the windows.

  At 11:00 a gunshot brought Weizak to his feet, and he realized his mother had taken his father’s shotgun upstairs.

  Around 1:00 a.m., after the paramedics had removed his mother’s corpse, Weizak called his brother, who answered with a slurred voice.

  “It’s me,” Weizak said. “I just thought you’d like to know that Mom killed herself.”

  “Jesus,” Ethan said. “Why?”

  “Her birthday’s next week, remember? Of course you don’t. You never remembered her birthday.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ethan said. “We don’t speak for three years, and this is how you break the news to me?”

  “I don’t care about your feelings. I don’t care about you. But I have to make the funeral arrangements, and I thought I’d at least see what day is most convenient for you.”

  “I’m not going all the way up there for a funeral. It costs a fortune to fly now and security is insane.”

  “She was your mother.”

  “That’s great. Make me feel guilty.”

  “I don’t expect you to feel guilty about anything. Mom told me about your business and Janie and the kids. You’re one h
ell of a human being.”

  “If I was there I’d kick your ass, you fat piece of shit.”

  “You haven’t seen me lately. I’ve lost some weight. Now I realize why I never lost it before: I look just like you, and it makes me sick to look in the mirror.”

  “I bet you’re getting laid more often.”

  He’s got me there. “Do me a favor. At least send flowers to the funeral. Let Mom’s friends believe you cared about her. I’ll be sure to send you a card for your birthday.” Weizak hung up.

  Rachel borrowed a long down coat, ski hat, and scarf from Weizak’s closet and trudged through the snow to a beauty salon she had found online. She had her hair cut short and dyed black, and then she had a facial and a manicure, two luxuries she’d rarely indulged in as a cop.

  After purchasing a set of blue contact lenses, she went to a bank and withdrew four thousand dollars—her entire savings—and returned to Weizak’s apartment.

  The next day she tracked down a notorious ID counterfeiter.

  “What you want?” the black man called Strip Lite said in the small Bronx bar where she knew to look for him.

  “I need a fake driver’s license with an alias and a falsified birth date,” she said.

  “You and the rest of the world. You a cop?”

  “Once upon a time.”

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  “That’s my business.”

  He looked her up and down. “Slinging counterfeit IDs is mine, and I don’t want to spend my last four months in the hole with a bunch of people possessed by demons.”

  “I’ve got two thousand reasons why you should help me.”

  “Why spend the money? You know the man is going to ram that new national ID through. I hear it’s going to have a magnetic strip on it with all our personal info and everything. Anything I make for you will be obsolete in a month.”

  “That’s more than enough time. I just want to be able to get around for two weeks without anyone tracking me.”