The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  He brought up the knee of his other leg, and I squeezed the trigger not once but three times, and a trio of red holes formed an uneven triangle in his torso. There must have been three blasts, but I heard one long one. Blood gurgled out of the holes, and the man dropped straight down onto the bottom of the oval, which had to have hurt his private parts like hell even with three bullet wounds in his chest.

  The man lowered his hands to his sides, and the sledgehammer thumped on the floor of the other studio. He turned his head toward me, and that simple motion caused him to topple into my domicile. He lay on the floor, gasping wet, drawn-out breaths.

  I crouched beside him. “Why the hell didn’t you leave like I said?” I wanted to shake him but didn’t dare.

  The man smiled. Not a grin like before but a genuine smile. “Happy . . . birthday . . . to me . . .” Then he closed his eyes.

  I took out his wallet and checked his driver’s license.

  Dmitry Beryzkin.

  The son of a bitch had used me. He wanted me to kill him.

  I didn’t like throwing Dmitry out the window, but what else could I do? He was a big guy, and three flights of stairs is a long way. Even if I’d managed to haul him down there, what then? I couldn’t very well carry him to Central Park and bury him.

  So after a great deal of struggle, I fed his body through the oval hole in the wall into the apartment next door (I didn’t want him bleeding all over mine), dragged it across the floor, and pitched it out a window. The body struck a black metal fence with spikes below, then flopped unceremoniously onto the sidewalk next to the garbage. I won’t soon forget the sound of the head’s impact on the concrete.

  After locking the window, I looked around the new annex to my property. It had a similar floor plan and just as little space, but if I knocked down the wall, it would be fairly spacious by Manhattan standards, and I’d have some room to spread out all the canned and dry food.

  That night I drank the bottle of red wine Rachel had left me.

  November 28

  I had hoped that someone would come along and dispose of Dmitry’s body, as someone had the MacNeil who had been stomped to death by those unidentified men, but when I awoke I discovered that was not the case. Dmitry’s corpse lay right where I had dumped it, leaving me to conclude that the possessed were claiming the bodies of their dead, but the nonpossessed were leaving their dead to rot.

  But Dmitry’s corpse had been stripped naked, and parts of him were missing. Portions of his thighs, arms, and sides had disappeared, along with his privates, and deep, craggy holes had taken their place, glistening red in the morning sunlight. At first I thought the rats had eaten him, but the edges of flesh were straight and clean, cut with surgical precision. As far as I could tell, we were cannibalizing ourselves while waiting for the damned to emerge from the shadows.

  Even though I closed the blinds, I was unable to block the image of Dmitry from my mind. I knew I’d remember killing him every day for the rest of my life.

  November 29

  Someone took Dmitry away during the night.

  Fifty-one

  December 10

  Rachel crossed the concourse and the track. On the outer perimeter of the track, open meeting spaces looked out on the concourse. The meeting rooms would have walls one day when Martin and his crew or one of the other two construction crews reached that far.

  She passed the library, which had a selection of hard copies as well as a vast catalog of e-books, and a nondenominational church that occupied the equivalent space of six meeting rooms. She stopped at a meeting room where five people sat at a metal table, poring over copies of a thick book Rachel recognized as the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible.

  David Bramowitz rose. In his midthirties, he had reddish brown hair and a beard, and he wore a light brown suit, wire-rimmed glasses, and a yarmulke. If Rachel had been wearing heels, she’d have been the same height as him. “And then there were six.”

  Rachel looked at the other members of the group: an old woman with white hair, for whom disapproval seemed a permanent expression; a man and a woman in their midtwenties; and a boy she recognized from the live-in school who also wore glasses.

  “I just wanted to introduce myself,” Rachel said.

  “Allow me.” David gestured to the group. “Elena Stein is our eldest member.”

  “He means I’m old,” Elena said.

  “Wise,” David added. “Daniel and Lisa Klein are newlyweds.”

  “Hello,” Lisa said and Daniel nodded.

  “Hi,” Rachel said.

  “You know Barry Rabinowitz from school.”

  “Of course. Hello, Barry.”

  Like David, Barry stood. “Hi, Miss Rachel.”

  “Barry’s bar mitzvah is next month,” David said, a warning in his voice.

  “How wonderful.” She hoped he would live that long.

  “Everyone, as you’ve no doubt already guessed, this is Rachel Konigsberg.” He looked at Rachel. “Or as I call you, the missing Jew.”

  She laughed. “Do you really call me that?”

  “He does,” Elena said. “So do I.”

  “Well, here I am so I can’t be missing. Is there really only six of us?”

  “Two percent of the US population, just like aboveground,” David said, smiling. “And you represent 16 percent of our population, so I’m glad you came around.”

  “I’m just exploring my options.”

  “There’s no shame in seeking spiritual comfort and guidance.”

  “You’re not a real rabbi, are you?”

  “I’m not even a fake rabbi. I taught Jewish Studies at Columbia University. But I’m all we have. No actual rabbis survived.”

  “He’s as good as a rabbi,” Elena said. “He’s very knowledgeable, just a little radical.”

  “I’m not radical. I just believe in reformation.”

  “Look where your reformation got us. If anything, we need to return to the old doctrines. Maybe then God will stop punishing us.”

  “Elena believes in predestination while I believe in free will. She doesn’t understand that her comments support my philosophy, not hers.”

  “I understand what I’m talking about.” Elena’s voice revealed no anger.

  “Of course you do.” David gestured to a seat. “Why don’t you sit so I can do the same?”

  With a guarded expression, Rachel sat beside Barry.

  David returned to his seat at the head of the table. “Tell us why you’ve come today.”

  David’s demeanor put Rachel at ease. “It’s like you said: I need some spiritual guidance and comfort. I’ve been wrestling with different ideas and feelings, and I need to put them into some kind of perspective that I haven’t been able to so far.”

  “Why do you want our help now?”

  “I want to foster a little girl.”

  Fifty-two

  December 16

  Weizak awoke to a familiar sound he had not heard for a long time: a sanitation truck backing up. Rising, he padded over to the window and raised the blinds. Sure enough, a green metal truck pulled close to the curb, and a man in a greasy uniform hopped onto the street and started throwing bags from the mountain of garbage into the truck’s rear. With almost casual disdain, the sanitation worker glanced up at Weizak.

  Weizak flattened his back against the wall. “What the fuck?” He had been talking to himself for several days now. He didn’t know whether to be more surprised that a Regan MacNeil was picking up garbage or that the possessed man appeared to fixate on his apartment window.

  It took the man several minutes to load his cargo and for the truck to proceed to the next building. Weizak remained against the wall, listening to the truck make each stop. When he heard it no more, he looked out the window again. The sanitation worker had collected the tattered garbage bags but had left the masonry and plasterboard that had once comprised the wall separating Weizak’s apartment from the studio next door. Weizak had dumped the debris out the wi
ndow just as he had Dmitry’s corpse.

  Although he had torn the wall down, he still used the space where it had been as an invisible divider between two large rooms. His original studio now served as his bedroom, and the space next door had become his living room. His kitchenette remained just that, and his newly acquired kitchenette was a pantry. His bathroom continued to serve its intended purpose, while his new second bathroom functioned as his personal power facility. He had set the wood-burning stove just outside that bathroom, with its portable chimney running through the bathroom and out its window, facing the building’s courtyard.

  He enjoyed having the extra space and the wood-burning stove, which he stocked with cordwood. The new studio meant that he no longer had to maneuver around the stock of food and wood, and he was able to luxuriate about while reading his books.

  Weizak poured water from gallon jugs into pots he set upon his Sterno stove, his method for preparing bathwater. To conserve his resources, he took a full bath every third day and a sponge bath the other two. Oatmeal for breakfast, soup for lunch, maybe spaghetti for dinner. Another day, another nineteen million people possessed.

  December 19

  Taking a break from his literary pleasure, Weizak pretended to enjoy a game of solitaire. He jumped in his seat when the lights came on and the TV screen brightened.

  “The power’s on!”

  He ran to his closet and pulled out his oil-burning space heater, which he plugged in next to the card table. The lights on the side panel blossomed to orange life. Then he walked over to the TV and zipped through the channels. No stations were broadcasting yet, so he glanced at the single shelf that held perhaps twenty DVDs.

  “Movies . . .”

  December 19

  Rachel and Ashanti lay in bed with their backs propped against the headboard and their knees raised beneath the blanket. For now they slept in the same bed. If the living arrangement worked out and Rachel decided to adopt the little girl, they would get a unit with two bedrooms.

  Rachel read from her iPad. NYS2 had a hardwired intranet but no wireless signal, and the wireless reception for all computers and electronic devices had been disabled. Cell phones were forbidden, and residents used a fiber-optic telephone system. “‘The king’s son was beside himself with pain, and in his despair he leapt down from the tower. He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell pierced his eyes.’”

  Ashanti turned the page with a graceful touch.

  “‘He wandered quite blind about the forest, ate nothing but roots and berries, and did naught but lament and weep over the loss of his dearest wife. Thus he roamed about in misery for some years, and at length came to the desert where Rapunzel, with the twins to which she had given birth, a boy and a girl, lived in wretchedness. He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that he went toward it, and when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell on his neck and wept. Two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew clear again, and he could see with them as before. He led her to his kingdom where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long time afterwards, happy and contented.’” Rachel closed the iPad.

  “I’m glad Rapunzel grew the prince’s eyes back,” Ashanti said.

  “So am I.” For a moment, Rachel had feared the Grimm fairy tale would end as bleakly as Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid had.

  “Fairy tales should have happy endings. Not like life.”

  Rachel looked at Ashanti. “Life has happy endings sometimes.”

  “Not for any of us.”

  Rachel’s voice softened. “Don’t say that. None of us knows what’s going to happen.”

  “I think the red-eyed people are the only ones who are happy.”

  “I’m happy being with you. Aren’t you happy being with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go to bed. No more talking.” She turned off the light and they cuddled.

  December 20

  His computer hummed to life, but the Internet failed to ignite. Opening his journal, Weizak began copying his chicken scrawl into a Word document.

  December 22

  Weizak had just sat down to watch Little Murders starring Elliott Gould when he heard a car horn. He rushed to the window and looked outside but saw nothing, so he returned to his space heater. He badly wanted to go outside.

  December 23

  Weizak ate his oatmeal breakfast with the TV broadcasting electronic snow at him. He had almost finished when he heard music coming from the street below. Even as he made his way to the window, he recognized horns, drums, and cymbals crashing.

  A marching band.

  Peering through the blinds, he watched the uniformed procession march down the street, four abreast: percussionists, drummers, baton throwers. With the street empty of cars, they had plenty of room to maneuver.

  All of them had red eyes.

  Part VI

  The Last Day of Man on Earth

  “This is the end . . .”

  —The Doors

  Fifty-three

  December 23

  Rachel padded along the carpeted corridor during her morning run. Although the temperature in NYS2 remained a constant seventy degrees, she wore a wool cap, just as she had in Cascade Locks before the Regan MacNeils had discovered her. She wore it now to project holiday spirit, something which had never interested her before. In truth, she had no desire to celebrate Hanukkah for herself or Christmas for the children, but she forced herself to do both for Ashanti.

  Think positive, she told herself.

  She had left Ashanti sleeping in bed, with a note explaining she’d be back soon in case she awoke and became alarmed. According to Carmudy, no one with a criminal record had been admitted to any of the sanctuaries.

  The Christmas carols piped over the PA system grew louder as Rachel ran onto the concourse, where the dimmed overhead lighting made the Christmas lights strung over the shops and tables glow brighter. She had to admit the multicolored lights filled her with an added degree of warmth. The morning workers took chairs off the tabletops and arranged them, and the shop owners opened for business. Tinsel dripped from the counters.

  Waving to Drew, she veered off the concourse onto the track and passed the church and the meeting room where she sat for Jewish Studies. Since David didn’t consider the space a temple, neither did she.

  She enjoyed the man’s humor and found him attractive but had made a conscious decision to avoid romance or even sexual release when she assumed responsibility for Ashanti. Something else stood in the way as well, and it didn’t make her proud: she found herself missing Weizak, that wiseass, which stunned her. Despite his less than heroic nature, he had come through for her numerous times, but he had less than two weeks to live—or at least to exist—and she had to consider him as dead as Steve Morelli and Calvin Ethridge.

  So much for positive thinking.

  Lights ahead caught her attention: behind glass walls, someone had opened the administrative offices early. As she drew closer, she glimpsed Sherry Ann closing the bathroom door behind her. Furrowing her brow, she slowed to a jog, then a walk, and caught her breath. Why the hell had Sherry Ann, who despised working, come in early unless Carmudy, the object of her affection, had come in as well? The council members all held offices in the back.

  Rachel opened the glass door and made her way between several cubicles to Sherry Ann’s desk. Rachel’s eyes were drawn to the blue and white pattern on the screen of the laptop.

  Oh, Jesus, no.

  Leaning over the desk, she gawked at the screen. Then she checked the toolbar and confirmed that Sherry Ann had used an Internet browser to log on to Facebook.

  A toilet flushed and Sherry Ann exited the bathroom. She started to smile until Rachel closed the browser. “What are you doing here?” She hurried to her desk and reached for the keyboard.

  Rachel seized her wrist. “No. What are you doing here?”

  “Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday. I wanted to tell h
er good-bye.”

  Rachel grabbed the neck of Sherry Ann’s dress and slammed her into the wall. “Fucking Facebook? Don’t you know what you’ve done? You’ve killed us all.”

  “No, I didn’t. Please don’t tell anyone. Bill will be so angry.”

  Carmudy. Rachel’s eyes widened. “The council members have Internet access.”

  “Just to monitor what’s going on aboveground.”

  Rachel slammed Sherry Ann against the wall again. “Does Carmudy know you’ve been surfing?”

  A single tear rolled down Sherry Ann’s cheek. “No, I swear it. I found his log-in information a few days ago and copied it down.”

  “How often have you gone online?”

  “Just today.”

  Rachel pivoted away from Sherry Ann to keep from punching her. “You stupid fucking bitch.”

  “It was for my mother. What was I supposed to do? Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

  Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Rachel turned back to Sherry Ann. “No, I wouldn’t. If I wanted to kill myself, I’d pop a pill or stick a gun in my mouth. I wouldn’t take everyone in the complex with me.”

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “You did. You sent your mother a message. Don’t you think the Regan MacNeils are monitoring our family members? I bet they’re tracing that signal right now. And once they figure out we’re hiding beneath a military base, they’ll realize where the others are too. You didn’t just doom us. You doomed all the survivors.”

  Sherry Ann shook, her lower lip quivering. “Oh, my God. Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”

  “Congratulations. You’ve finally done something with your privileged ass to make a difference in this world.”