The Julian Year
Page 16
Two more soldiers ran over.
Rachel stood still and stared at the officer. “It’s in the waistband of my jeans.”
One of the soldiers jerked up her shirt and pulled her Glock out. “Do you have any other weapons?”
Rachel rotated her hands. “Just these. They’re registered with the FBI.”
The soldier behind the X-ray machine removed her shoulder bag and unzipped it. “Ma’am, do you have ammo for that gun in this box?”
“Just a dozen mags. Bullets don’t kill people. Guns kill people.”
The second soldier removed two white boxes from the bag, set them down, and zipped the bag, which he handed to her.
The first soldier gestured to the officer. “Step this way, please.”
Rachel walked over to the officer, who had steel-gray hair and a lined face. “Major Powel, I presume.”
“Miss Konigsberg, you’re the last to arrive.”
“I prefer Officer Konigsberg.”
Powel nodded. “I heard about your skirmish last night and the incidents before that. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Rachel hadn’t expected this reaction. “Thank you.”
Powel led her down a wide corridor, and she gazed through several pairs of doors at deep, comfortable-looking recreation rooms populated by people of all ages.
“What happened to the old folks?” she said.
“We relocated them to another facility. Consolidation is the name of the game.” Powel stopped at two elevators and pressed a call button.
“How many of us are here?”
He studied her as if wondering why she cared. “Barely one-third of you folks have survived, and there are almost two hundred holding areas for you across the country. We’ve got about one hundred and fifty of you here. Most of them came here voluntarily weeks ago. But not you.”
An elevator door opened and they boarded the car.
“It was never my ambition to get old before my time,” Rachel said.
“Meals are served at 0700 hours, 1200 hours, and 0600 hours. There’s a cafeteria on each floor, I guess to make it easier on the nurses who had to push all those wheelchairs and gurneys.”
They got off the elevator, and Powel led her down another wide corridor. “You’ve got cable TV. Because of security precautions, you have no telephone privileges and limited Internet use.” He stopped outside a door with the number 228 on it. “It should be unlocked.”
Rachel opened the door and entered her temporary living quarters. She stood in a furnished living room attached to an open kitchen. She set her bag down on the coffee table. “What happens if we change?”
Powel stepped inside. “We’ll relocate you to a more appropriate facility in an orderly manner.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then I guess we’ll sing happy birthday.”
“Will we be free to leave?”
“We have to be sure you’re not just experiencing some kind of delayed reaction.”
She exhaled. “How long will it take for you to be reassured that we’re not dangerous?”
“I can’t answer that. I don’t make decisions of that caliber. I just do what I’m told. Why would you want to leave, anyway? We’re at war. You’re safe here.”
“I want to know that I have the option.”
“We’re all running out of options, aren’t we? I’ll let you get settled in.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “Oh, what I said earlier about telephone privileges? There are exceptions. The president wants to speak to you after dinner, so make yourself available.”
Rachel set her dinner tray down at a round table occupied by two men and three women. The cafeteria had high ceilings, like the rec rooms, and soothing, nondescript music oozed out of the ceiling speakers. Soldiers looked out of place standing at attention by the garbage cans and the dessert display. After a round of introductions, she felt like she had been cast on a reality TV show.
“You’re the holdout, right?” Ron said. He seemed like the type of yuppie who worked on Wall Street. “The one who killed those crazies last night?”
Rachel tasted her roast chicken, which wasn’t bad. “I’m the last of the Mohicans.”
“Why didn’t you come in sooner?” Betty said.
Rachel studied the woman, who wore her hair in a medium-length bob with bangs. “Until some demon or damned soul takes over my body, this is my life. I want to live it my way. Don’t you?”
“I just want to live,” she said in a meek voice.
“Quality, not quantity.”
“I don’t consider killing people quality time,” Sherry Ann said.
“If we make it, we’re going to need people like her,” Ron said.
Rachel smiled. “You got that shit right.”
After dinner, Rachel sat on the sofa, watching the news on TV. The telephone emitted a piercing ring beside her, causing her to jump. Catching her breath, she lifted the phone from its cradle. “Hello?”
A man said, “Please hold for the president of the United States.”
Rachel muted the TV, then waited what felt like a long two minutes before another man came on the line.
“Hello, Rachel? This is President Rhodes.”
“Hi.” Should I call him Mr. President or Hari? She didn’t remember if she’d even voted in the last election.
“I’m happy to learn you’ve arrived safely. I’ve been briefed on your ordeal last night, and I can see that you’re an impressive individual.”
“Thank you.” What else could she say?
“Cynthia and myself—the entire nation and the world—pray that you beat the Omega Disorder.”
“I intend to.”
“I’ll be watching you and the others on closed-circuit TV from the Oval Office. I want to personally wish you good luck.”
“What will happen to me if I’m still myself on March 1? I’d kind of like to celebrate St. Paddy’s with the cops in my precinct.”
“Please understand I’m not at liberty to discuss particulars. If you turn, we have reason to believe that the soul possessing your body will have access to your memories, and any sensitive information will become common knowledge to the enemy. Know simply that if those born on leap-year day prove immune to possession, we’re obligated to do everything in our power to protect them.”
She hadn’t expected him to reveal anything substantive. “In that case, I’d like to ask you for a favor.”
Rhodes paused before answering. “If it’s within my power, I’ll be happy to accommodate you.”
“I understand the reasoning behind the decision not to allow friends or family members to be present at the moment of truth, but press will be here, right?”
“I’m sure you understand the historical significance—”
“I’d like to request that Julian Weizak be included in the press pool.”
Another pause. “The reporter who made the birthday connection.”
“He’s based in New York.”
“Mr. Weizak is on my radar because he’s a lifer. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Again, good luck.”
Rachel hung up, then crossed the room to the desk against the wall and tore off a sheet of stationery from a pad.
February 28
Rachel’s second day at Shady Trees proved far more stressful than the first. She sat alone in the cafeteria and threw up after lunch and dinner, and her legs felt like rubber as she wandered the corridors. In her unit, she stood at the window, staring at the snow-covered woods behind the property.
At 8:00 p.m. someone knocked on her door, which she opened.
“Is it inappropriate for me to wish you happy birthday?” Weizak said. He wore a camel-hair coat and a nice scarf, and he carried a bag over one shoulder.
For the first time all day she smiled. “You won’t believe how glad I am to see you. I don’t believe it.” She stepped back from the door, allowing him to enter.
“
Thanks.”
Rachel closed the door. “You look good. Is that a new coat?”
“Someone stole my old one.”
“You don’t say?”
“Thanks for that present you left for me, by the way. I can honestly say that no one’s ever given me the same gift.”
“Did you bring it with you?”
“With the security here? Not a chance. Why? Do you want to shoot me or yourself?”
She sat on the sofa and bounced one leg. “Neither. I’d just feel better if I could hold it.”
“I know what you mean.” Sitting beside her, he offered his hand to her. “Will this do in a pinch?”
Closing her fingers around his hand, she nodded and let out a tremulous breath. “I didn’t think it would be this hard. It’s like waiting to take that last walk on death row.”
“After killing those Normans, the whole world knows how tough you are. Besides, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of living to see your next birthday, which is more than the rest of us can say.” Reaching inside his coat, he took out an envelope.
Accepting it, she recognized the logo of the hotel she had stayed in, where her parents were probably still holed up.
Weizak raised one finger to his lips, indicating that he shared her suspicion the room might be bugged.
“I’m not so tough.” Rachel reached behind a pillow, removed two pieces of paper, each one folded into a makeshift envelope, and handed them to Weizak. “Don’t call them Normans. Call them Regan MacNeils.”
“After The Exorcist?”
She watched him read her writing on the first envelope—Mom and Dad—and then the second one—Calvin Ethridge. “You’ve read it.”
“The movie’s pretty popular right now.” Tucking both letters into his coat pocket, Weizak said, “I feel like I’m being used again.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thanks for the gig. You have friends in high places.” He stood. “I have to go but I’ll be back before your time. My bosses expect me to interview as many leap-day babies as I can.”
She stood as well. “Don’t you want to interview me?”
“You get enough press, Annie Oakley.”
She walked him to the door and hugged him. Before she let go, she felt herself shaking.
“You’re going to impress the whole world.”
She nodded. “I’m sure going to try.”
Weizak turned into the corridor and Rachel closed the door. Then she sat on the sofa and read the letter from her parents.
At 10:00 p.m. a soldier set up a HD camera with an external shotgun microphone on a tripod in Rachel’s living room. He tested the equipment, told her she had an hour to herself, and left.
Rachel sat on the sofa and zipped through the TV channels. She tried to watch Seinfeld, but it only reminded her that Julia Louis-Dreyfus had been born on January 13; any last-minute reunions would have to be done without Elaine. At least Antonio Sabàto, Jr. would still be around if the leapfrogs survived.
Turning the TV off, she wrung her hands. Then she rose and walked into the kitchen, where she opened the silverware drawer. The utensils were plastic.
They’ve thought of everything. But she was confident she could find a way to off herself if she really wanted to.
She sat at the computer and switched it on, only to discover that her Internet had been disconnected. Crossing the unit, she opened the front door.
A soldier armed with a M16A turned to her. “Can I help you?”
She stiffened. “I want to go to a rec room to use a computer.”
“I’m sorry but you’re confined to your quarters.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Her worst fears were coming true. Without saying anything, she closed the door. After taking several deep breaths, she went into the bedroom, stood before the mirror, and made herself up. It occurred to her that footage of her moment of truth would become part of history, and she figured she might as well look her best.
Rachel paced the living room. What the hell was taking them so long?
At 11:45 p.m. the door opened and Powel entered, followed by two soldiers and a solemn-faced Weizak. One of the soldiers carried an M4, the other a beige cloth sack with sleeves, Velcro, and buckles.
“I gave you extra time to prepare yourself,” Powel said.
Rachel pointed at the straightjacket. “What the hell is that?”
“We have to take precautions. You’d do the same thing if you were in our position.”
“I don’t want to wear it. If I turn, just shoot me.”
“As much as I’d like to oblige you, I can’t. Now hold out your arms so we can put it on, or I’ll call nurses to sedate you, and you’ll be out when midnight rolls around. I know you don’t want that.”
Biting her tongue, Rachel extended her arms. She held Weizak’s gaze while the soldier dressed her in the straightjacket. He tightened straps and belts, pulling her arms to her sides, and fastened the buckles.
I’m a prisoner, Rachel thought. In that moment, she knew what it meant to be helpless.
“Now the leg-irons,” Powel said.
The soldier gestured to the chair set up before the camera, and she sat. The other soldier secured metal bracelets linked by a chain around her ankles.
So much for looking good. Rachel stared at the camera.
Powel kneeled before her. “Do you need anything? Something to drink?”
She shook her head.
The clock on the wall read 11:55.
Six minutes to go.
Sweat formed on her brow. “Anybody got a deck of cards?”
No one laughed.
The clock ticked.
Her breathing quickened. “How about those Mets?”
The clock ticked.
“May I get close to her?” Weizak said.
“For one minute,” Powel said.
Kneeling before her, Weizak set one palm against the side of her face. “Don’t be afraid. You have no control over whatever happens next.”
“Losing control is what I am afraid of.”
“Be at peace with yourself. You’re only responsible for your own actions.”
The clock ticked.
“Christ, why is the time going so fast?” she said, her voice cracking.
“My mother had a theory that as we get older and move toward our natural end, time speeds up. That’s why a summer day seems to last forever for a five-year-old, but it seems to be over before it started for an adult.”
“Smart lady.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s long enough,” Powel said.
Weizak locked eyes with her. “You can do this.”
“People keep saying that like it’s up to me.”
Weizak stood and crossed the room.
Three minutes to go, Rachel thought.
Powel returned to her side. This time he remained standing. “You’re a warrior, like me. Don’t be afraid.” He returned to the camera and pressed a button, and a red light went on.
Rachel looked at the men in the room and saw fear in their eyes.
She heard the sound of her own breathing, the sound of her heartbeat.
Her mouth turned dry.
The clock struck twelve.
Tears formed in her eyes. Not now! “Please . . . I don’t want this to happen . . .”
No one answered her.
She stared at the clock.
It didn’t move.
“I think something’s wrong with the—”
The minute hand ticked.
Oh, God, this is it.
She held her breath and listened to her heart.
Nothing’s happening!
Then she hurled vomit at the camera.
Part III
Thank God It’s Friday
or
Escape from New York, New York
“Don’t wake me for the end of the world unless it has very good special effects.”
—Roger Zelazny
—Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome
Twenty-two
February 29
Rachel vomited again, her stomach constricting with pain. Rocking forward, she bowed her head and waited.
Nothing happened.
Gasping, she looked up at the clock. Her nostrils and the back of her throat burned.
Weizak and Powel stared at her. One soldier looked down the length of his M4, targeting her.
They’ve got orders to shoot to kill, Rachel thought.
The clock ticked.
Nothing happened.
Rachel’s heart beat faster.
“Say something,” Powel said.
She wanted to laugh, but the sound came out as a cough. Tears formed in her eyes and she shook her head. Looking at Weizak, she coughed again, then finally laughed.
Weizak and Powel exchanged apprehensive glances.
The clock ticked.
“I’m me,” Rachel said. “I didn’t change. Nothing happened.”
Powel glanced at the clock, then gestured for the soldier to lower his M4. Weizak started forward but Powel held him back. “Not so fast.”
Weizak raised his eyebrows. “But you can see she’s all right.”
“I don’t see anything. She could be faking it. Or there could be a delayed reaction. We’ll have to wait and see what happens. It’s going to be a long twenty-four hours. If everything appears to be unchanged come March 1, Miss Konigsberg and our other guests will have to undergo psychiatric evaluation.”
Staring at Powel, Rachel shrugged against her chains. “When do I get out of these?”
“When I know we won’t have to shoot you in self-defense. We’ve got our hands full right now.” Powel glanced at one of the soldiers. “Get someone up here to clean this mess.” He turned to Weizak. “Are you coming, or is she the only leapfrog you care about?”
“I’m coming.” Weizak looked at her. “Congratulations. I’m glad you pulled through.”
“Thank you.” She watched Weizak follow Powel out of her unit. When the door closed, she leaned back in her seat and glanced at her guards. “I guess it’s just us.”