The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  Inside the apartment, he saw a darkened TV in a room at the end of the hall and moved toward it. “Jasmine? It’s me, Larry! Juan?” He swung his Glock around the corner.

  Jasmine held Juan on the sofa. They looked him straight in the eye. Tears rolled down Jasmine’s face.

  “Uncle Larry?” Juan’s voice sounded as sweet as his eyes looked.

  I got here in time, Larry thought.

  “It didn’t happen,” Jasmine said. “He’s going to be okay.”

  Juan slid from his mother’s lap. “Where’s Dad, Uncle Larry?”

  Something isn’t right here.

  Jasmine stood, revealing a .38. She aimed the revolver at him with both hands, her legs separated in perfect stance. Anibal had taught her well. “Leave us alone.” Her voice sounded ice-cold.

  Larry glanced at Juan in disbelief. The boy had stopped moving, but he resembled a cat waiting to pounce. At least his eyes hadn’t turned red. “You don’t mean that, Jazzy.”

  She tightened her grip on the gun. “Yes, I do.”

  Larry raised his left hand in a placating gesture. “That isn’t your son anymore.”

  “Yes, I am,” Juan said in an innocent voice.

  “No, you aren’t,” he said with slow deliberation.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jasmine said. “It’s Juan’s body. As long as it’s alive, so is a part of him. That won’t be the case if he goes to detention to be executed like Julio was.”

  “This will never work. He won’t allow it. He’s not human.”

  “I’m as human as you are,” Juan said. “And I love my mommy.”

  “I’ll do whatever I have to in order to take care of him,” Jasmine said. “Now go.”

  Larry knew of people who willingly aided and abetted Regan MacNeils. He didn’t understand such a willing suspension of disbelief. “Jasmine—”

  She fired the gun, taking out a chunk of plaster from the wall behind Larry, who recoiled. She fired again, and this time the round struck him in the chest. He wore Kevlar, but the impact knocked the wind out of him and toppled him against the TV. The barrel of her gun followed him to the floor. Unable to speak, he raised his Glock. Jasmine fired a third shot, and this time the round slammed into his left thigh.

  He returned fire, two reports that tore into her chest and drove her onto the sofa. She wasn’t wearing Kevlar.

  Juan took a running dive into Larry. With a ferocious snarl, the boy sank his teeth into the wrist of Larry’s gun hand, forcing him to release his hold on the weapon, which clattered on the floor. Using both hands, Larry shoved the boy back toward the sofa, but Juan charged straight at him again. Still unable to breathe or sit up, Larry fended the boy off as best as he could.

  Juan clawed at Larry’s face and bared his teeth like an animal. His eyes changed: blood seeped over them, making them dark, and then a glow pulsed from within the eyeballs themselves, casting an eerie glow through the blood. Larry screamed. Juan wiggled in closer, opening his mouth wide. Larry felt the boy’s teeth closing over his throat.

  A burst of machine-gun fire roared through the apartment, blowing Juan off Larry. The bloodied boy struck the floor and rolled across it, then lay still. The glow in his eyes faded, leaving only the blood.

  The soldier Larry had spotted across the street hurried down the hall and did a perimeter sweep of the living room with his M16A. He looked down at Larry, then extended a hand.

  Larry took the soldier’s hand and pulled himself up, and a shock wave of pain flared through his leg, which caused him to cry out. A pool of blood spread around Juan, so Larry limped over to Jasmine. She stared at him with glassy eyes, then stopped blinking.

  Larry gazed at the television in his room at Bronx-Lebanon Hospital. He had muted it because he didn’t care to hear what the pundits had to say; the fatalities scrolling across the bottom of the screen provided all the information he needed. He couldn’t believe he’d killed Jasmine or that Juan—or whatever had possessed the boy—had tried to kill him. He would never forget the sight of the boy’s horrible glowing eyes.

  Lugones knocked on the door and entered.

  “You didn’t have to come all the way up here, Captain.”

  “They told me the round passed straight through your leg.”

  “Yeah, lucky me. I was hoping I could go on disability until my birthday in September, but it looks like I’ll be climbing back onto a saddle. Does Anibal know yet?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry. Anibal ate his gun.”

  Thirty-six

  June 1

  Donna Lopez exited the elevator and strode past Secret Service men and soldiers who saluted her, which still caught her by surprise. She entered the presidential dining room, where Rhodes sat holding hands with his wife, Cynthia, and Stoker sipped coffee.

  “Good morning,” Rhodes said, standing, with Stoker a heartbeat behind him.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  The First Lady rose with a smile. “Good morning, Madame Vice President.”

  Donna appreciated the gesture. Rhodes and Stoker waited for the women to sit before doing so as well.

  Rhodes gestured to the spread on the table. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Donna poured a cup of coffee, then added cream.

  “Donna, I’ll cut to the chase. I want you to take a week off. Spend some time with your family. Relax.”

  Donna raised her eyebrows. “Thank you, Mr. President, but I have way too much to do.”

  “It can wait. As your commander in chief, I’m ordering you to take a short vacation. When you return, we’ll spend one week transitioning to your presidency. I’m stepping down a week early.”

  Rhodes was resigning early, and he wanted her to take a vacation?

  “Austin has assembled a team to plan an inauguration for you, a symbolic gesture for the public to reassure them that someone will be in charge.”

  Donna double blinked. “I don’t care about the inauguration. I care about all the important work there is to do.”

  Rhodes offered a sympathetic smile. “I’ve put the needs of the country ahead of the needs of my family for too long. I want to spend what time I have left with them.”

  She felt pressure building in her temples. “I understand your feelings but—”

  “We’ve managed to keep the country afloat against insurmountable odds. We’ve kept our people working, we’ve kept them fed, and we’ve kept them informed. I want to thank you for your help and wish you luck in the days ahead. We all know things are going to get far worse from here on.”

  Thanks for the encouragement, Donna thought. “It was all you. You held everything together.”

  “I’m reviled. If I’m somehow remembered, it will be as the man who ordered the extinction of half his constituents.”

  “You had no choice. You did the right thing. That will be my legacy too.”

  “I feel for you. I really do.” He glanced at Stoker. “Anything we need to know ahead of our briefing?”

  “I’d better go see what the girls are doing.” Cynthia turned to Donna. “I’ll see you at the inauguration.” She left the room.

  “It’s estimated that nearly half a million people nationwide have gone underground since January 1. All of them had birthdays and have presumably turned.”

  “That’s one hell of an army in waiting,” Rhodes said.

  “Homicides committed by possessed people are down, drastically so. In fact, they appear to have ceased altogether except in situations that could almost be described as self-defense.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “I think they’re massing their numbers until they hold the majority, and then we’ll see the biggest bloodbath yet.”

  “I’m sorry, Donna. It looks like you’ll be facing a civil war.”

  Donna swallowed. “Our own people are doing this to us. They’re going underground when they should be sacrificing for the greater good.”

  “Survival is a strong instinc
t,” Stoker said. “So is hope. These people want to believe that they’ll somehow beat the odds.”

  “You’ll face two primary threats,” Rhodes said, “an army of possessed people hoping to seize control and the anarchy that will occur from our own people.”

  “I’m just as worried about a nuclear strike from another country that’s already been taken over.”

  Rhodes cocked his head. “I don’t see it. Their goal is to take over our bodies. Subjecting our entire population to fallout makes no sense. They’ll be depriving themselves of hosts, cutting themselves off at the neck.”

  “That hasn’t stopped them from wholesale slaughter so far.”

  Rhodes reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “There’s one more thing I want to discuss.” He offered her the paper. “This is a photocopy.”

  Donna examined the paper, a letter from Christopher O’Rourke, handwritten on official stationery.

  “It was dated the day he killed himself,” Rhodes said.

  Dear Mr. President,

  It’s been an honor serving this great country under you. I know that when the news of my action breaks, people will assume that I couldn’t hack the dark times we face, but that isn’t true. Why would it be? I’m shucking these mortal coils before the situation grows worse.

  No, I have an entirely different reason for taking my own life, and it has nothing to do with cowardice. And I do what I must against my own religious beliefs. But I took an oath to serve this country, and I place that oath above all else. It’s true that I objected to the mass executions of these possessed people, but war really is hell, and I agree you took the correct course of action.

  I’ve also come to realize that your method doesn’t go far enough. You’ve entrusted me with secrets and plans that must not fall into the hands of the enemy. It’s not enough to kill me once I’ve turned; I need to die before I join the “one mind” of these devils. So do you and Donna and whoever she chooses as her vice president as well as all our closest advisors and allies. Extrapolating on this theory, every member of government should agree to be euthanized ahead of his birthday. I wonder how many of them really will put country first.

  I wish you and your family good health and spiritual comfort as you wrestle with your own decisions.

  Sincerely,

  Chris

  “My God.” Donna set the letter down with trembling fingers.

  “I want you to keep that,” Rhodes said. “Chris was a good man, a good vice president, and a good friend. As soon as I read that letter, I began compartmentalizing my decisions on a need-to-know basis. I persuaded certain senior advisors and policy makers to step down in favor of junior members with birthdays later in the year. In some unfortunate circumstances, I ordered men and women who possessed vital sensitive information imprisoned in secret facilities, where they were treated as civilly as possible until their executions. Yes, they were put to death ahead of their birthday.”

  Donna felt herself turning numb.

  “In keeping with this philosophy—this policy—when I turn myself over to the Secret Service before my birthday, they will take me to a guarded facility and I will immediately and voluntarily be euthanized for the good of the country and the remainder of humanity. This information will be kept secret from the public.”

  Donna sat speechless. The president had made moves she had considered him incapable of when she served as his secretary of state.

  “In November, you’ll face a similar choice. I obviously can’t make a vow to accept assisted suicide part of your oath, but I hope you’ll do the right thing.”

  Donna took a deep breath. On top of everything else, the president expected her to die before her time. “I’ll do my best to follow in your footsteps in every way, Mr. President.”

  June 3

  Weizak entered the apartment a little after 6:00 p.m., his forehead spackled with sweat. There was no such thing as a slow news day anymore, and he had learned to cope by limiting himself to a single major story per day. The Julian Year had become one of the most popular features at the paper. Air-conditioning greeted him, followed by the aroma of fresh-cooked chicken.

  Cathy sprang out of the kitchen, smiling, and they kissed. “How was your day?” she said.

  “Not bad. The usual assortment of suicides, draft protests, and city services consolidations. How was yours?”

  “We had to say good-bye to little David.” Cathy had taken a job at a shelter for orphans. The city no longer called them orphanages because no one adopted children anymore.

  Weizak stroked her back. “I’m sorry, babe.”

  “I can only cry so much each day.”

  Hugging her, he glanced at the far wall. “What did you do now?” He crossed the room and inspected the interior window guards.

  “We have to start taking our security more seriously,” she said.

  Unlatching one guard, he swung it open like a gate. “The murders have largely stopped.”

  Cathy stood before him on the other side of the guard, the bars separating them. “But for how long? You’re lucky I was able to get these.”

  “I guess that’s your way of telling me they weren’t on sale.” Something caught his eye in the corner at the opposite end of the room. He walked over to the deep shelves that hadn’t been there before, stocked high with jugs of water, canned food, and dry food. “What are we, survivalists?”

  Again she joined him. “The year is half over. Why won’t you accept that we need to prepare?”

  He took one can off the shelf. “I hate fruit cocktail. The grapes don’t taste like grapes, the peaches don’t taste like peaches, and the pears don’t taste like pears.”

  She gestured at the goods like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. “For every meal we eat, we need to store an equal meal for the future. That’s what it will take to nourish us until the end.”

  Weizak set the can down. “Some meals are more equal than others.”

  “You could still stand to lose a few pounds.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Unless you don’t believe we’re going to make it to the end of the year.”

  He tried not to think about it. “I have no reason to believe otherwise. I just don’t want to live like a pack rat.”

  Cathy crossed her arms. “We have no choice, and don’t forget that you’re the one who didn’t want to look for a bigger place. There are vacancies all over the city.”

  “Who wants to go through all the hassle of packing and moving? Besides, I’m comfortable here. I like the view out my windows. At least I did before it became a jailhouse view.”

  Cathy’s features collapsed. “I just want us to be safe . . .”

  “I know you’re only planning ahead.” He took her in his arms. “Thank you.”

  As they made love on the futon that night, Weizak realized that he really had come to love Cathy and enjoyed living with her. He only wished they had more time together.

  June 20

  Rachel entered the construction zone. Three men wearing jeans, plaid shirts, aprons, and protective goggles used screw guns to erect a metal grid upon which they would mount plywood. Rachel liked the smell of wood.

  A wiry man with medium-length blond hair stopped working and faced her. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Martin.”

  He measured her for a moment, then looked over his shoulder and gave an earsplitting whistle. “Yo, Martin!”

  A man down on one knee, driving a screw into the wooden floor, stopped what he was doing and looked up. He had graying curly hair and a thick beard. “Yeah?”

  “Lady wants to see you.”

  Martin stood and strode over to them. He topped six feet and had a ruddy nose. “What can I do for you, girly?”

  “I’m told I need a job, and you need a fourth man on your crew.”

  Martin looked her up and down. “You’re not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “How so?”

  The blon
d man smiled.

  “You’re kind of short for one thing,” Martin said.

  “Does that mean I can’t swing a hammer?”

  “Have you ever swung one before?” “Nope.”

  “What did you do before?”

  “I was a cop.”

  Martin scratched his hairy neck. “Yeah, I heard about you. Long Island girl, right? Killed a bunch of Regan MacNeils?”

  “That’s me.” She glanced at the blond man, who stopped smiling.

  “So why don’t you go back to being a cop?”

  “I don’t want to do that anymore. I’ve done enough killing. I want to build things instead.”

  Martin frowned. “I really wanted somebody with at least some experience.”

  “We all have to learn to start over, right?”

  The burly man sighed. “All right. You start Monday. I’ll try you out for one week. And dress like one of us—nothing provocative.”

  Rachel smiled for the first time since her arrival.

  July 3

  Dressed in her sawdust-covered work boots, jeans, and plaid shirt, Rachel carried her construction helmet, with her safety goggles tucked inside, across the concourse. Tables and chairs had been set up around the fountain and between the shops, like a food court in a mall.

  Sherry Ann stood up and waved.

  Rachel walked to her and Betty and sat with them. “Ladies.”

  “I wish I could say the same thing,” Betty said.

  “We can’t all wear dresses at work,” Rachel said. “I wore pants when I was a cop.”

  “Well, you can,” Betty said. “You just choose not to.”

  Betty was a volunteer at the live-in school for orphans, and Sherry Ann worked in the management office that tracked where everyone lived.