The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  Weizak unsnapped the Windbreaker and shed it, then unstrapped the vest and discarded it.

  The possessed man aimed the weapon at him. “Now take off your shirt and turn around.”

  Weizak hesitated, and in that moment the driver opened the door and lunged out of his seat. The Regan MacNeil fired twice, causing Weizak to flinch. The driver fell down the stairs.

  “Close the door,” the possessed man said.

  With the gunshots still ringing in his ears, Weizak turned around. Blood dripped down the wide windshield, and the driver lay halfway out of the bus. “He’s blocking the door.”

  The possessed man trained his Magnum on Weizak. “Throw him out first.”

  Swallowing, Weizak descended the first step, his knees wobbling, leaned forward, and seized the driver’s ankles. He lifted the man’s legs, then pushed the body forward like a wheelbarrow. The legs disappeared through the door, and the body struck the asphalt with a soggy thud.

  Weizak’s brain screamed at him to flee. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the cool gleaming handle that operated the door and swung it toward the empty driver’s seat, closing the door.

  Then he faced the possessed man again, staring down the barrel of his gun. “Nobody here but us short-timers.”

  “Your shirt,” the possessed man said.

  Weizak peeled off his shirt. “You got a name?”

  “‘My name is Legion for we are many.’”

  Color me surprised.

  The man with the glowing eyes motioned with his weapon. “Turn.”

  Weizak obeyed, grateful now that Janet had taken his revolver. Completing the turn, he saw the MacNeil grinning behind his Magnum.

  “We have a message for you to deliver.”

  Larry’s heart raced at the sound of the twin gunshots. “What the hell was that?”

  “They killed the driver,” the sharpshooter said over the radio. “Now our boy is heaving the body out. He just closed the door again.”

  “Still no view of the perps?”

  “Negative.”

  “Maybe we should storm the bus,” Janet said.

  “There’s no point. They’ll just kill everyone.”

  “Tear gas, then.”

  “It would only result in the same thing.”

  “They made Weizak take off his shirt and turn in a circle,” the sharpshooter said.

  Larry’s gaze darted around the avenue. “Now what’s happening?”

  “He’s standing there, listening to someone.”

  “Maybe they’re talking him to death,” Janet said.

  “Something’s happening,” the sharpshooter said. “The door’s opening again. Here he comes. He’s not alone . . .”

  Weizak hurried around the bus, pulling his shirt on, and several people emerged behind him.

  Soldiers swarmed Weizak and the hostages, walking them to the blockade.

  What the hell? Larry thought.

  “They’re letting the hostages go,” Janet said with surprise evident in her voice.

  The soldiers hustled Weizak over to Larry.

  “They threw some handguns off the bus,” the sharpshooter said. “Now they’re walking off with their hands raised. Jesus, look at those eyes . . . Should I take them out?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Weizak said. “The retaliation will be fierce.”

  Larry spoke into his hand radio. “Negative, just arrest them.”

  Soldiers ran behind the bus, then returned with the three possessed people.

  “Congratulations,” Weizak said. “You just arrested Legion.”

  “What happened in there?”

  Weizak looked Larry in the eye. “They gave me a message for the president.”

  “What did they say?”

  “The message is for her ears alone.”

  “Oh, I’ll just get her on the phone, then. I have her on speed dial, direct line and everything.”

  “I’m not kidding. I’ll only speak to the president face-to-face. My life depends on it.”

  Thirty-eight

  The soldiers drove Weizak to JFK. Military security surrounded the entire airport, and the only active airplanes on the tarmac were olive green. The Humvee parked at the curb, and all four soldiers got out and escorted him inside.

  Weizak had not been in an airport since his trip to Jamestown, and he was astonished to see that the massive interior had been converted into a base of operations: hundreds of officers and aides sat at desks and conference tables, with a spiderweb network of cables providing power. Weizak had never seen so many armed people in his life, and he half expected to see missile transports. Dozens of soldiers drove golf carts towing wide, wheeled platforms loaded with tied-down boxes of food.

  Slipping his phone out of his pocket, Weizak snapped photos. When none of the soldiers objected, he shot more.

  Golf carts carrying high-ranking officers whizzed by his walking entourage.

  I guess I’m not so important after all, he thought.

  Voices droned over the speakers, reading call letters that had no meaning to him and military times that took him too long to calculate.

  “What time is my flight?”

  The corporal stared straight ahead. “Your transport is fueled and ready to go. It will take off as soon as you settle into your seat.”

  Now he felt important.

  Two Military Police officers waited at the gate.

  “He’s all yours,” the corporal said.

  “Follow me,” one of the MPs said.

  Weizak followed the man and the other MP followed him. The entrance to the aircraft swallowed light.

  The first MP turned around with a basket in one hand. “Sir, please empty your pockets and place all items in here, including any phones, cameras, or audio-recording devices.”

  Weizak hesitated. No wonder the soldiers had not ordered him to put his camera away; they intended to approve his photos. He emptied his pockets except for one item.

  “Your phone, sir.”

  “I’m with the press.”

  “You’ll get it back. We’re returning on the same plane.”

  Weizak took out his phone and set it in the basket with his gun, wallet, pad, pen, and keys.

  “Welcome aboard.”

  The MP gestured inside, and Weizak entered the windowless fuselage, ribbed in steel. He sat on a bench with his back against a wall and strapped himself in. One MP sat near the cabin, the other at the rear of the plane, flanking him.

  The engines roared to life, and Weizak felt the plane pulling away from the gate. Without windows, he had to rely on familiar motions to estimate the aircraft’s position. He gripped the armrests during takeoff, and then his stomach lurched. Once the aircraft had settled, neither MP offered him crackers or a soft drink.

  After what he estimated had been an hour, he unstrapped himself and made his way to the front of the plane, where he used the lavatory. Exiting the restroom, he looked down at the MP. “What time is it?”

  The MP regarded him with ambivalence. “We’re under orders not to answer any questions.”

  “Even about the time?”

  “Take your seat, please.”

  Sighing, Weizak returned to his seat. After what felt like another hour had passed, he dozed. When he woke, he realized the plane was traveling in wide circles.

  They don’t want me to know how far we’ve traveled so I can’t figure out where the president is holed up.

  When the plane landed, Weizak unbuckled his seat belt before anyone told him to; it mattered to him to let the MPs know he still had free will. Then he waited for them to let him off the plane.

  The MP stationed at the front of the plane opened the hatch and led Weizak down the gangway to the tarmac. Darkness had descended, and a warm breeze blew Weizak’s hair. He didn’t look forward to the end of summer, for more reasons than usual.

  Standing on the tarmac, he observed military vehicles driving around. Only the barracks and the sweeping searchlights distinguished the ba
se from JFK.

  The MPs ushered him to a jeep where an army sergeant waited. He climbed into the passenger side, and the sergeant drove away as the MPs returned to the plane. Armed soldiers occupied numerous guard towers and positions protected by stacked sandbags and razor wire. A bulky helicopter lifted off the tarmac, its black hull self-illuminated by blinking lights, rotors drowning out the sound of the jeep’s engine.

  The jeep passed an administrative building, then entered a large garage constructed of cinder blocks. A metal gate lifted and the jeep rolled inside, where a dozen armed MPs waited. As the gate descended, a pair of Secret Service men approached the jeep.

  “This way, Mr. Weizak,” said the bulkier of the two men, who had a strong jaw and a receding hairline.

  They went through sliding glass doors and stopped in front of an elevator. The man who had spoken set his hand upon a laser scanner, and the elevator doors opened. Weizak followed him into the elevator, and the man inserted a key card into a wall panel and turned it. The elevator’s descent was smooth.

  When the doors opened, the men led him down a wide corridor lined with soldiers standing at attention. They passed an American flag pinned to the wall, then moved between two swinging doors into a deep anteroom. Weizak recognized the man rising from behind a desk: Austin Stoker, the vice president. Two other Secret Service men stood with their hands folded before them on either side of a pair of dark brown wooden doors.

  “How was your flight?” Stoker said.

  “Mysterious.”

  “I’m sure you understand the need for precaution. As far as the public is concerned, the president is still in the White House. I trust we can count on your discretion?”

  Weizak was tempted to play tough. “Absolutely.” He believed they would relocate the president as soon as he left the base anyway.

  Taking Weizak by one arm, Stoker gestured at another pair of wooden doors. “Then let’s go inside. You’re the first journalist to meet with President Lopez since she took office.”

  Stoker guided Weizak between the Secret Service men and through the doors into an office the same depth as the anteroom.

  President Donna Lopez sat at a large desk in front of closed curtains mounted on the wall to resemble the Oval Office. “Mr. Weizak, thank you for coming.”

  “I thought it would be an expense-paid trip to D.C.”

  She motioned for him to take a seat in front of the desk. “Austin will join us.”

  Weizak sat and Stoker sat behind him.

  “We’ve been fully briefed on the hostage situation in New York City. It was brave of you to board that bus.”

  “I believed I was safe, and I believed there was a good story in it. I didn’t expect to get scooped by every other news outlet in the country while circling wherever we are in a military transport.”

  The president maintained a faint, tired-looking smile. “We need to hear what happened on that bus. Deliver the message they gave you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost ten,” Stoker said.

  “Then we’d better get started. You’ve only got two hours to answer their ultimatum.”

  “Almost as soon as I got on the bus, the driver made a run for it. The lead MacNeil made fast work of him,” Weizak said.

  “For God’s sake,” Lopez said, “what do they want?”

  “‘You go to that president and tell her you’re running out of time,’ the leader said. ‘There’s over a million of us across the country, waiting for the right time to strike. That time is tonight at midnight. You tell her to stop killing our kind, or we’ll rain down a massacre that will make the first forty-eight hours look like a schoolhouse brawl.’

  “‘You want the executions stopped,’ I said.

  “He held his gun closer to my face. ‘Isn’t that what I just said?’

  “‘Are you offering her anything in return?’

  “‘We’re offering not to bring the goddamned apocalypse down on this country.’

  “‘Are you offering any additional incentives?’ I thought he was going to shoot me.

  “‘You stop killing our kind and we’ll stop killing yours. That’s a treaty that will hold until the end of the year when the last of you has turned. We can afford to outwait you. Tell this to that woman. We require a public answer by twelve tonight, or you’ll all be sorry.’

  “So I left the bus. You know the rest.”

  Lopez and Stoker exchanged glances.

  “They want to smoke a peace pipe,” Stoker said.

  “It sounds more like they want us to surrender,” Lopez said.

  Weizak resisted fidgeting. “How so?”

  “If we stop fighting, they win. It’s as simple as that.”

  A feeling of discomfort swelled in Weizak’s stomach. “If we stop killing them, there will be less killing. More people will be alive on January 1.”

  “They’re not people; they’re possessed people—damned souls reborn into bodies that don’t belong to them. They’re monsters.”

  For a moment, Weizak felt like the president wanted to strike him. “One way or another, they’re going to win. Time is on their side. It’s just a question of how many of them will still be standing when the rest of us are gone. If we’re all dead or possessed anyway, what difference does it make? We lose either way.”

  “They declared war on us. We have to defend ourselves and retaliate however we can.”

  Weizak shifted his gaze to Stoker, who appeared too frightened to speak.

  “Forgive me, Madame President. I don’t have all the information you do. I can only formulate opinions based on what I’ve seen. What you say is true, but if both sides call a cease-fire, our reason for defending ourselves and our reason for retaliation both go out the window. We can live our last days with some degree of quality instead of carrying guns into McDonald’s and sleeping with one eye open.”

  The president rose and circled her desk. She looked down at Weizak like a schoolteacher. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  Weizak had a sinking feeling. She was set in her ways, unable to see reason. “I don’t think you can call them terrorists anymore. There’s too many of them. They’re an invading force, and it’s just a matter of time before they become an occupying force.”

  “Do you suggest we stop executing them and release them from prison? Maybe we should stop arresting them altogether. That’s too inconvenient. We should live in the same buildings with them, eat at the same restaurants, all the while waiting for the time when we become like them.”

  “It’s sort of like expedited evolution.” He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them.

  “Evolution?” she said through clenched teeth. “Try demonization.”

  “I didn’t mean to argue with you. I only came here to deliver the message. It’s up to you and your cabinet what happens next. I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Not so fast. Tell me why they chose you to be the bearer of this message.”

  “Maybe they like my blog.”

  “Or maybe they’ve handpicked you to be their own Axis Sally.”

  “I’m a journalist, an objective reporter. That doesn’t make me a traitor to the human race.”

  “How would you like to stay here? You could be an embedded reporter with a bird’s-eye view of the last policy-making sessions in the country.”

  Weizak already distrusted the Daily Post because of the army’s control. He had no desire to be under the president’s thumb. “Thank you. That’s a very flattering offer. But I live in Manhattan. I prefer to keep it that way.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is there anything we can do for you as thanks for the efforts you’ve made today?”

  “Yes. The army confiscated my gun at the airport. I’d like it back.”

  “We can get you another gun. A better one.”

  “Thank you, but the one I have is probably all I can handle.”

  She held his gaze. “Austin will see that it’s returned to you when y
ou land. Anything else?”

  He had nothing to lose. “Can you tell me how you plan to answer them?”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t know.”

  “May I stick around? I just want to post my story from here when you’ve made your decision. If you send me back to New York now, I’ll be scooped again while I’m in the air.”

  Lopez turned to Stoker. “Find him a desk with a restricted computer. He doesn’t post anything without our say-so. Then get everyone in here so we can make a decision.”

  The Julian Year

  President Lopez Agrees to Truce

  Julian Weizak, Daily Post columnist

  Minutes ago, addressing the world, President Donna Lopez accepted a truce offer from representatives of the Possessed People’s Army. Effective immediately, all executions of disordered individuals in the United States and its satellites will stop in exchange for an end to all hostilities by the PPA against US citizens. The offer was relayed to the president by this reporter following an encounter with possessed individuals aboard a New York City bus earlier today.

  At this point, no further cooperation has been discussed. Around the world, other leaders are announcing similar cease-fires.

  Thirty-nine

  August 9

  Rachel and Eric, the carpenter with the blond hair, finished erecting plywood over the frame of their latest apartment.

  Eric took off his construction helmet. “Quitting time. How about a drink?”

  Rachel removed her helmet, then her goggles. “No, thanks.”

  “Hey, we’ve been working together for almost two months. When are you going to give me a break?”

  She looked him in the eye. “We work together so never. That was my rule when I was a cop, and that’s my rule as a carpenter.”

  “Apprentice carpenter.”

  “Okay, apprentice carpenter.”

  “What’s the big deal? I just asked you out for a drink, not to marry me or anything.”

  “Look, I’m going to give it to you straight: two men I cared for were killed by those red-eyed bastards. I don’t want to get close to anyone again anytime soon. Let’s just see what happens January 1.”