The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  “I’m sure Rachel has her reasons for doing what she does,” Sherry Ann said to Betty. Then she faced Rachel. “Maybe you like one of those carpenters, hm?”

  Snorting, Rachel shook her head. Betty had already moved in with Ron, and Sherry Ann hoped to turn an office mate into an apartment mate. “I’m not looking for a man—”

  Betty opened her mouth.

  “Or a woman. I’m just looking for a little inner peace, and I think it’s working. I’m sleeping better at night, and I’ve stopped dreaming about Regan MacNeils.”

  A female server came over to the table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’ll have a margarita.”

  “With salt?”

  “No.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “You always have to be different,” Sherry Ann said.

  “If we were all the same, we’d have red eyes.”

  “You say you’re happy but I don’t think that’s true,” Betty said.

  “I never said I was happy. I said I was at peace. There’s a difference.”

  Sherry Ann sipped her margarita. “Now, honey, why do you have to be so serious all the time? Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July, a day for celebration.”

  “A day off,” Betty said. “These six-day weeks are grinding me down. I thought living here would be easier.”

  “I like working,” Rachel said.

  “You would.”

  “It takes my mind off things.”

  “There you go again,” Sherry Ann said. “What is it now?”

  “President Rhodes was born on July 7. He has to turn himself in to detention.” And he promised he wouldn’t allow himself to be possessed.

  “Why are you bringing that up?” Betty said. “We have to put the world up there out of our minds and worry about the world down here. It’s hard enough to pretend this is real without you tearing down the illusion every chance you get.”

  “I’m sorry.” But Rachel didn’t want to pretend the illusion they were constructing was real. She watched two police officers conferring near the track.

  July 4

  Fireworks lit up the sky in a multitude of colors.

  Weizak and Cathy walked hand in hand along the Carl Schurz walkway, overlooking the East River. It was a rare trip across town for them. Weizak wore khaki shorts and a short-sleeved button-down shirt, and he carried the .38 Rachel had given him in his shoulder bag. The killings may have stopped, but there was no telling when they would resume, and with the unifying threat temporarily dormant, he feared the threat of his fellow men more.

  Tonight, though, everyone seemed to be in a mood to celebrate.

  “This is the last fireworks display we’ll ever see,” Cathy said.

  “No, this is the best fireworks display we’ll ever see.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder, and they watched the spectacle.

  July 5

  Weizak rode the bus downtown to work. It had become impossible to find a taxi these days, and after his experience on the subway on New Year’s Day, he preferred to travel aboveground. Heading downtown, he observed tow trucks removing unclaimed automobiles from parking spaces with expired meters.

  Maybe I should buy a car at auction, he thought.

  The bus discharged him at Hudson Square, and he crossed the streets and island to the Daily Post’s headquarters. He knocked on a locked door, and a new security guard walked over. Weizak pressed his ID against the glass. The guard looked at the ID, then at him. Finally, he unlocked the door.

  Weizak opened it. “Thanks.”

  The security guard closed the door behind Weizak.

  Four armed soldiers, three of them female, stood at attention near the elevators.

  “Good morning.” Weizak pressed the call button and boarded the elevator.

  None of the soldiers responded.

  On the sixth floor, Weizak stalled as he stepped off the elevator: half a dozen soldiers stood around the newsroom, two of them in Rosen’s office. Weizak didn’t bother to say good morning as he passed them.

  Drawing closer to the office, he saw Rosen packing his belongings into a box upon his desk. “Say it ain’t so, Joe.”

  Rosen looked up with a wistful smile. “Gentlemen, this is Julian Weizak.” He gestured to the soldiers. “Major Czubinsky and Captain Wheeler. They’re regular army.”

  “Do tell.”

  Czubinsky stepped forward and offered his hand. “I’m an admirer.”

  Weizak shook his hand. “I like what you guys do too.” He turned to Rosen. “I do, right?”

  Rosen’s smile widened but remained sad. “I’m not getting shit-canned. My two weeks have arrived. It’s time for me to mow my lawn and throw a baseball with my son.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll miss you. Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “Thanks for breaking so many earth-shattering stories. You turned out to be a decent reporter.”

  They shook hands.

  Weizak looked at the officers. “Who’s taking over as editor?”

  “I used to run Stars and Stripes,” Wheeler said. “So I have experience. We don’t intend to meddle with the Daily Post’s content, but since the government is funding this operation, it makes sense for me to keep track of things.”

  “That does make sense.” My ass. “As a columnist, I tend to work from home. It’s just serendipity that I happened to stop by on Joe’s last day. Can I walk you out, Joe?”

  “I’d be honored.” Rosen held out his box, which Weizak took. “Gentlemen, good luck.”

  “You too,” Czubinsky said. “Don’t be a stranger, Weizak.”

  On the walk to the elevator, Weizak took in the sights of the newsroom.

  “I’m never going back there,” he said on the elevator.

  “I don’t blame you. When government controls the press, it’s time to press on somewhere else.” Rosen reached into his pants pocket, removed a slip of paper, and handed it to Weizak.

  “What’s this?”

  “Log-in information for the server owned by Jamie Faust, the son of the previous owner of this newspaper. Now that his father’s gone, Jamie wishes he still owned the paper. The only problem is that the government doesn’t want to relinquish it. So I’ve helped Michael create an alternative online newspaper called The Last Words. That server is prepaid through doomsday; as long as there’s electricity and an Internet, it will run.

  “Keep writing here if you want to collect that government paycheck and write under an alias over there. Or switch your allegiance to The Last Words and receive a fraction of your current salary and no expense account. Or create your own damned website and link it to The Last Words. Whatever you do, don’t become a tool for a government that wants to assure the public that everything’s okay even though the world’s already gone to hell.”

  The elevator stopped and the door opened.

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  “Don’t mention it. Just keep reporting the truth.”

  They got off the elevator and walked through the lobby in silence.

  Outside, Weizak waited for the door to close behind them. “Have a good life,” he said.

  “You too.”

  When Weizak returned home, the apartment building felt empty as he ascended the stairs. People were flocking out of New York City.

  Entering his apartment, he glimpsed a splash of blue on the futon. He locked the door and crossed the apartment, then picked up his New York Rangers hockey shirt. Cathy had been saving it as a parting gift. In place of a Dear John letter, she had left her driver’s license. The date of birth on the license was July 16. She hadn’t just left him; she had gone underground.

  News Alert

  This morning President Hari Rhodes reported for detention at a private facility established for high-ranking government officials and military officers. His wife, Cynthia, and daughters, Julia and Sophie, were on hand to see him off. In a public address from the Rose Garden, President Donna Lopez saluted Rhodes as a
true American hero, who held the fabric of American society together during the first half of the Julian year.

  Part V

  The Party’s Over

  “The world began without man, and it will end without him.”

  —Claude Lévi-Strauss

  Thirty-seven

  August 3

  Striding past parked military vehicles, Larry entered the 19th Precinct station house. On the stairs he passed men and women in blue and green uniforms.

  Fans twirled in the squad room, and as Larry took his desk, he saw Sergeant Ramos conferring with three soldiers in Lugones’s office, which meant that Lugones had taken his two-week vacation. Soldiers and marines had been replacing police personnel at a steady rate, and the man sitting at Lugones’s desk had a crew cut and wore a khaki uniform. Pulling his chair out, Larry made eye contact with the new CO.

  Then Ramos turned in his direction and beckoned him forward.

  When Larry entered the office, the officer remained sitting.

  “I’m Major Mendez.” The Hispanic man spoke with a Texas accent. “I’m in charge here now. I understand you’ve been training my people since your partner killed himself.”

  “That’s right.” Larry had spent a good deal of time in the company of soldiers, teaching them department policies, precinct perimeters, and basic street smarts.

  “I want you to spend your last few weeks with one partner.” Mendez gestured at a black female soldier. “This is Corporal Janet Johnson. Get her a desk and take her under your wing.”

  Larry looked at his new partner. “Whatever you say. Come on, Johnson.”

  “I don’t require you to salute me,” Mendez said, “but you will address me as your superior.”

  “Yes, sir.” Just for the hell of it, Larry gave a salute.

  Larry poured himself a cup of coffee near the squad room watercooler. “Were you drafted?”

  “No, I signed up,” Janet said. “I guess you could say I was drafted by NYPD, though.”

  Larry glanced around the squad room. “I don’t know what it is, but it sure isn’t NYPD. Where were you stationed?”

  “All over the Middle East.”

  “Did you see any action?”

  “I saw plenty. I just never participated until the Blairs made the scene.”

  Larry sipped his coffee. “When’s your last day?”

  “I’m a December birth.”

  “I don’t know which one of us is luckier. I have a feeling it’s me.”

  “You’re an eternal optimist, aren’t you?”

  “My partner killed himself. I killed his wife. Their kid turned into a Regan MacNeil and tried to kill me, and one of your people diced him good with some heavy fire power. Last week my father turned himself in to detention and refused to speak to me. Now he’s gone. Every day I come here, and wherever they send me, I end up counting bodies. I have a hard time putting a positive spin on things.”

  “Why wouldn’t your father speak to you?” Janet said.

  “He never accepted my sexual orientation.”

  “You came out or he caught on?”

  Larry shrugged. “I never made any secret about it.”

  “It must have been rough, being a cop.”

  “Probably no harder than it was for you in the army.”

  Breaking into a grin, she looked out the window. “How did you know?”

  “I’m a detective. I’ve got a sense for these things.”

  “You getting any?”

  He shook his head. “You?”

  “Hell, yes. I look fine and I carry a big gun.”

  They laughed at the same time.

  Ramos joined them and handed Larry a piece of paper. “Sorry to break up meet-and-greet time, but you’d better make that coffee to go. We’ve got a hostage situation on Lexington.”

  Larry scanned the paper. “Why don’t you send a hostage negotiator?”

  “For one thing, we don’t have any. For another, the perps are MacNeils, and the United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. And last but not least, we already know what they want, and it’s a who: Julian Weizak. We have thirty minutes to deliver him before they start shooting.”

  Weizak sat at the desk in his apartment, staring at the empty box for the CMS for his blog, when his cell phone emitted its ring tone, sparing him from writer’s block. The phone displayed the number for the 19th Precinct, but he heard a story calling. “Weizak.”

  “This is Sergeant Ramos. Three possessed people have taken a bus full of civilians hostage on Lexington Avenue and Eighty-fifth.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll get over there as fast as I can.” Although crosstown traffic through Central Park had diminished, Weizak was glad he had bought a Grand Am at auction; he might have to leave the island in a hurry one day soon.

  “We’re happy to provide you with transportation. We have a vehicle outside your building now.”

  What the hell? “Just a minute.” He walked to the window and peered through the bars at a Humvee parked at the curb. “I’m honored. Why the luxury armored sedan?”

  “The MacNeils want you, and if they don’t get you in twenty-three minutes, they’re going to start killing hostages.”

  “Why on earth would I agree to that?”

  “Because you love the front page.”

  “Online every story makes the front page.”

  “Twenty-two minutes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Hanging up, Weizak pulled on his sneakers and hurried out his apartment door. He ran downstairs, and in the lobby he passed a standing soldier and a seated woman who represented the tenants’ security association. The Humvee filled the view outside the front door.

  “Are they here for you?” the woman said with a touch of awe in her voice.

  “Yes, they are, Mrs. Ptacek.”

  “I hope you come back.”

  He opened the door. “So do I.”

  On the sidewalk, a soldier stood outside the Humvee. “Weizak?”

  “That’s me.”

  The soldier opened the door. “Hurry. We’ve only got twenty minutes.”

  Weizak climbed into the wide backseat of the armored vehicle beside two other soldiers.

  The first soldier, a corporal, got into the front passenger seat, and the driver steered the vehicle forward.

  Weizak wanted to crack a joke, but the heavy atmosphere dissuaded him. “Where are you fellas from?”

  No one answered.

  “I’m a reporter. You can tell me. Freedom of the press.”

  The corporal looked over his shoulder. “We know who you are. Do you know who we are? We’re regular army, not cops. We can’t tell you anything, so button your lip and enjoy the ride.”

  The Humvee turned onto Broadway, roared downtown, then cut across the park.

  Weizak glanced at his watch. Eight minutes to go.

  The Humvee sped along Eighty-fifth Street, which had been cleared of traffic, and turned down Lexington Avenue. Through the bulletproof windows, Weizak counted dozens of soldiers and police officers. A city bus sat across the avenue, blocking all lanes. The Humvee stopped behind a blockade of police and military vehicles, and the soldiers climbed out with their M16As at the ready. The first soldier helped Weizak out just as Larry Palmer walked over with a female soldier.

  “I’m sorry about Rivera,” Weizak said.

  “Thanks,” Palmer said. “Dying’s part of living more than ever, isn’t it? This is my new partner, Janet Johnson.”

  Weizak looked at the woman, who had strong cheekbones, smooth skin, and full lips. “I really wish we were meeting under different circumstances.”

  Janet checked her watch. “You have four minutes.”

  Palmer held up a Kevlar vest. “Put this on.”

  Weizak raised his arms, Palmer placed the vest over his head, and Janet secured its Velcro straps.

  “Is that the butt of a revolver I feel, or are you just happy to meet me?” Janet said.

  �
�I never leave home without it,” Weizak said.

  Palmer pulled a navy-blue NYPD Windbreaker over the vest and snapped it while Johnson confiscated his gun. “Any idea why they want you?”

  “None but they’ve reached out to me before.”

  “The passengers are all standing, so we can’t get a shot at the MacNeils. Try to stand near a window between people, so we know you’re all right. Get going, good luck, and don’t make them angry.”

  Larry watched Weizak approach the bus with his hands raised.

  “That’s one brave civilian,” Janet said.

  Larry wondered. “People take chances when they’ve got nothing left to lose.” None of us has much left to lose now.

  The sun beat down on the bus, and Larry wiped sweat from his brow.

  Weizak disappeared around the front of the bus.

  “I can’t see him,” Larry said into his hand radio.

  “I got him,” a voice said over the radio’s speaker. “The bus door opened. Now he’s getting on. The door just closed.”

  A moment passed before the sharpshooter on the other end spoke again. “The door’s opening—”

  Two gunshots cracked inside the bus.

  Weizak’s legs turned numb when the bus door opened and he ascended the steps into the air-conditioned interior. The bus driver regarded him with a desperate look as he closed the door behind him.

  Weizak stood at the safety line behind the driver and surveyed the situation. A man with eyes glowing ruby red stood near him, armed with an enormous handgun that Weizak believed to be a Magnum. Through the crowd of passengers, another pair of red eyes blinked at him from the bus’s midpoint, and a third set revealed themselves near the rear of the vehicle. Weizak estimated two dozen men and women provided the possessed people with cover.

  “I’m Weizak.”

  “We know you,” the closest Regan MacNeil said. “Take off that jacket and vest.”