The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  Rachel scrambled around the truck. She kicked in the passenger side window, pulled out the bag of food, then the blanket. Setting the duffel bag aside, she threaded the blanket under the truck. She set a rock on top of the blanket, just under the truck, and took out a can of lighter fluid she had brought in case she needed to build a cooking fire.

  Rachel peeled off her coat, preferring the mobility and dark color of her SWAT uniform, and pulled the duffel bag’s strap over her head and one shoulder. Clutching her M16A, she crawled until she reached the creek’s stone embankment, where she turned around. She grabbed several rocks and built a small wall to hide behind.

  The helicopter circled the area, its spotlight illuminating the truck and creeping ever closer to her. Then it moved in the opposite direction.

  Propping her gun on the rocks, she waited for the four possessed cops. She closed her right eye, relying on her remaining night vision contact lens. She tightened her grip on the trigger.

  The helicopter passed over her, kicking up dust and debris and making it difficult for her to aim.

  Cops with glowing eyes appeared around the truck.

  Rachel fired but the shot ricocheted around the truck bed. The cops spun in her direction, aiming their guns. Taking a deep breath, she fired again. This time the lighter fluid exploded, turning the truck’s bed into an oven. One second later the truck exploded, and the blast lifted it off the ground, spreading flames in all directions and knocking the possessed cops to the ground.

  The helicopter rose, which relieved her: she wanted to leave witnesses.

  All four cops leapt to their feet, two of them engulfed in flames and dancing as they screamed.

  Rachel picked the other two off with ease. Then she rose, ran to the end of the embankment with her M16A raised over her head, and leapt into the freezing cold creek.

  Sixty-one

  December 30

  A helicopter flew overhead.

  “When’s Rachel coming back?” Ashanti said.

  “I don’t know,” Betty said.

  Upstairs the telephone rang, causing her to jump. They had been afraid to check it for a dial tone when they first arrived, but it hadn’t rung until now.

  Sixty-two

  December 31

  On the last day of man, Weizak awoke with sunlight in his eyes. He had slept surprisingly well considering the gravity of his situation. Checking the kitchen sink, he was pleasantly surprised to discover running hot water, and he took a long, steamy shower.

  Dressed in a bathrobe, he switched on the TV and saw the address of the president of the Russian Federation playing again. He fixed a bowl of Cocoa Puffs served with instant milk and enjoyed his breakfast at his computer, where he discovered the Internet was working.

  Society’s been restored, he thought.

  He visited the websites for the Daily Post and The Last Words and saw that they had not been updated. Larger news sites offered embedded videos of the world leaders’ addresses the night before. Tiring of their red eyes, he accessed his e-mail account and found mostly junk mail. He logged on to Facebook, though he didn’t want to waste his last day on trivialities.

  A private message from his brother awaited him, sent the day the power had gone out.

  I’m sorry we never got the chance to patch things up. You were right about Mom. I should have come up for her funeral. I guess I fucked up again. Anyway, I had to stay here with my family. They’re all gone now and I’m alone. You’re all right for a fat girl.

  Take care,

  Ethan

  Weizak stared at the message for a moment, digesting it. His brother’s birthday had come and gone, and he was either dead or possessed.

  Standing before the bathroom mirror, Weizak shaved for the first time in days. Then he dressed in a pair of jeans and his beloved New York Rangers shirt. He put on his coat and slipped his .38 into his pocket, more out of habit than any real desire to protect himself. He locked his door behind him and descended the stairs to the lobby. On the way down, he heard the sounds of televisions coming from two apartments and wondered if the new tenants were simple sinners or Regan MacNeils.

  Outside, he inhaled crisp air that numbed his nostrils. Why couldn’t the last day have fallen in June?

  As he walked toward Broadway with his hands in his pockets, he slowed his pace when he glimpsed traffic on the great avenue ahead. Would the MacNeils crucify him?

  No. They want my body.

  A taxi pulled over to the curb ahead of him, and an Arab with red eyes lowered his window. “Taxi, Weizak?”

  Weizak thought of the Mafia’s method of taking people targeted for assassination on long rides. “No, thanks.”

  The driver grinned. “Suit yourself.”

  Resuming his trek, he passed an older black woman and a white man in his early twenties holding hands. They both had red eyes, and when they gazed at him he felt self-conscious.

  They think I’m the freak, he thought.

  A commuter bus passed the intersection ahead, and several people with red eyes turned in his direction. At the corner, a woman walked by holding the hand of a toddler. The little girl looked at Weizak, then hid behind her mother.

  Weizak stood at the corner, taking in the sights. A police helicopter hovered above, a welcome change from the military choppers that had become so common in the city, and he recalled the attack on the jeeps he had witnessed from this very spot. Cars traveled in each direction, and a delivery truck rumbled by.

  Inhaling the aroma of cooked onions and sauerkraut, he spotted a hot dog vendor across the street and waited for the light to change so he could cross. “Give me a sausage with the works,” he told the vendor.

  The red-eyed man served him a sausage loaded with ketchup, mustard, sauerkraut, onions, and relish. “You want a soda?”

  “Hell, yeah. Give me an Orange Crush.”

  The man handed him an ice-old can. “Three-fifty.”

  Weizak took a bite of the juicy sausage, which tasted delicious. “Don’t you need to see my ID?”

  The vendor shook his head. “We don’t need those. Besides, we know who you are.”

  Fishing in his pocket, Weizak handed the man a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You got a name?”

  “If you knew my name, you wouldn’t eat that.”

  Weizak’s chewing slowed as he contemplated the possibilities.

  The man chuckled, inserted Weizak’s money into a metal box, then pumped hand sanitizer into one palm. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too.” Weizak walked to the curb to finish the sausage and noticed a heavyset man with black hair waddling down the steps of the subway entrance.

  The trains are back in service, he thought. And I bet they’re running on time.

  A bus pulled over to the curb, and he stuffed the remainder of the sausage into his mouth. As he boarded, the red-eyed driver stared at him. Weizak swiped his MetroCard, then walked down the aisle. Perhaps two dozen people with red eyes gave him identical looks.

  He found a window seat and enjoyed the drive through Central Park. Walking along Museum Mile, he was happy to see that the Metropolitan Museum of Art had reopened. Shrugging off the cold, he climbed the steps. He wandered around the museum, studying paintings and statues and ignoring the whispers of the red-eyed patrons and museum employees.

  After leaving the museum, he walked along Eighty-sixth Street on the Upper East Side. Many of the businesses in the commercial area were still closed, but possessed people walked in all directions. When he made eye contact with them, they lowered their eyes and hurried on.

  The sound of an engine in the sky caused him to look up at a jumbo jet soaring overhead from the direction of Queens. He didn’t need further confirmation that the military base at JFK had fallen.

  He found a Jamaican restaurant on Second Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street and went inside and took a seat.

  The hostess set his silverware before him without
meeting his gaze.

  “Do I look that bad?” he said.

  She looked into his eyes, and although he could not read emotion in hers, he saw that the sound of his voice drained her face of color, and she hurried away.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  After lunch Weizak rode the train downtown to Grand Central, where he took the shuttle to Times Square, then transferred uptown. The number of possessed people riding the rails overwhelmed him, and their glowing eyes stood out in the underground gloom and fluorescent glare. Sitting on the metal bench of his last train, his heart pounded, and he took several deep breaths to prevent a panic attack.

  He staggered up the subway steps to Broadway, and a trio of teenage thugs glanced at him. As soon as the traffic light changed he hurried across the street, where he purchased a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon at a convenience store.

  “Thank you. Come again,” the clerk with glowing eyes said.

  Inside the lobby of his building, a mailman bundled for the weather stuffed envelopes into mailboxes.

  Weizak froze at the sight of him.

  The man reached into his bag, took out a handful of rubber-banded mail, and held it out to Weizak.

  Weizak ignored him and fled upstairs. He stumbled into his apartment out of breath, then locked the door and hung his coat in the closet. Setting his .38 and one can of beer on his computer desk, he put the remainder of the six-pack inside the mini-refrigerator and went into the bathroom. Then he sat before his monitor and popped the tab on his beer can. He took a deep gulp and let out an appreciative sigh. He had a lot to write and not very much time to get it all down.

  The sky darkened and he worked through dinnertime, describing his day in detail. At 8:30 p.m., he finished his sentence, uploaded the entire document to the CMS for The Last Words, then stood and stretched.

  After using the bathroom again, he took another beer out of the refrigerator and turned on the TV. Ryan Seacrest—or was it Carson Daly?—was broadcasting live from Times Square, his red eyes creating flares in the lens. A wide shot revealed a million people cheering and waving at the camera, which meant two million red eyes.

  Switching on his iPod in its speaker bay, he scrolled through the selection of offerings and chose Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits. As the soulful lamentations swept through the apartment, he lowered the volume on the TV and finished his beer. Then he sat at his desk and eyed the time in the corner of his monitor and waited until two minutes before his birthday, just to be safe.

  Taking a deep breath, he looked at the gun on the desk. The thought of committing suicide had tempted him for months, no more so than today. He had promised himself he would record man’s history, and that was what he intended to do. He interlaced his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and created his final blog of the year.

  The Julian Year

  The Last Day of Man on Earth

  I had hoped to end this account with a bit of profound wisdom, but I’m a reporter, not a philosopher. Billions of people have been possessed by the souls of our past. I’ve tried to find a reason for it all, but I’ve never been Woodward or Bernstein and never will be. Should we all have committed suicide, thereby depriving the damned of vehicles for their return? I don’t know.

  But I do know this: our time really is at an end. The fiends have taken over our bodies, our communities, our world. There is no cavalry left to ride in and rescue us. It’s all over; this is the end. Hopefully a remnant of our culture will survive in the form of literature, music, and other arts. Hopefully, with this journal, I’ve contributed in some small way to how we’ll be remembered by the frightening new world order.

  Weizak stopped typing. A sudden feeling of sickness churned in his belly. Spreading his fingers on the desktop, he rose. As soon as he stood erect, he doubled over and vomited on the floor. Then he sank to his hands and knees and vomited again. Staring at the vomit, he saw his life and soul.

  How’s that for profundity?

  Climbing back into his chair with shaking hands, he focused on the keyboard and resumed his duty.

  I’ve tried to be a decent person. I’ve never deliberately hurt anyone. (Well, there was Dmitry, but he wanted me to shoot him.)

  Sixty-three

  December 31

  Betty awoke early on the morning of the last day of man convinced something terrible was going to happen to them all. She allowed everyone to sleep in, and as children opened their eyes she raised one finger to her lips. By now each of them had the discipline to remain still and quiet.

  When the majority of the children had risen, she put on her best happy face. “All right, let’s begin our chores.”

  “What about breakfast?” Chuck said.

  “We’re not going to have breakfast today. We’re going to have brunch. That’s a combination of breakfast and lunch.”

  “Brunch sounds like a gyp.”

  When Betty went upstairs, the older kids appeared to be deep in a serious conversation.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Barry gave her a questioning look.

  She shook her head. “We’re going to have brunch instead of breakfast. Get started on your baths and laundry.”

  The kids moaned and stood.

  “Barry, I want you to stay here and keep a lookout.”

  “Sure,” Barry said.

  Betty liked that he never complained, but this morning she sensed a certain resignation in him.

  The sun set and the children, bathed and wearing clean clothing, grew agitated.

  “What are we going to eat for dinner?” Ricky said.

  “We’re not eating dinner,” Betty said.

  “What?” Chuck said.

  “We don’t have any food left,” Betty said.

  “We have to eat,” Cammy said.

  “We will.”

  “When?” Chuck said.

  “When Miss Rachel gets back.”

  “When will that be?” Ashanti said.

  “I don’t know.” She feared the answer was never.

  “At least the helicopters have stopped,” Barry said.

  Betty kneeled on the upstairs floor with him. They peered beneath the blind and out the window at troop transport trucks that rumbled down the street in the darkness.

  “I think we’d better get downstairs,” Betty said.

  “I thought you wanted me to be the lookout.”

  She messed up his hair. “You did a great job, but I don’t think there’s anything else either one of us can do. Let’s all go be together.”

  He nodded and they stood up.

  Betty put her arm around his shoulders and guided him downstairs. “I don’t care if you have a bar mitzvah or not. You’ve proven to me that you’re a man.”

  She hoped she had made him smile.

  “I want all flashlights out,” Betty said. Trucks continued to rumble outside at intervals.

  “It’s too dark,” Tristan said.

  “I want everyone to go to sleep early,” Betty said.

  “It’s too crowded down here,” Chuck said.

  “You complain too much,” Barry said.

  “I can feel you breathing when you talk. I can feel everyone breathing.”

  “Can’t we watch TV?” Rosie said.

  “No,” Betty said.

  “But it’s New Year’s Eve,” Ashanti said. “We want to know what’s happening.”

  I don’t, Betty thought.

  Brakes squealed outside, causing Betty to snap awake. She didn’t know how long she had dozed off.

  “Miss Betty, someone’s here,” Rosie said.

  “I know. Everyone, be quiet.” Betty closed her fingers around the .45 holstered at her side.

  Someone pounded on the front door upstairs. Seconds later, someone pounded on the back door as well.

  The overlapping pounds made Betty want to scream. Holding her breath, she felt her heart slamming in her chest.

  A child whimpered in the darkness, and another made a shushing sound.

  Settin
g her flashlight down on the futon between her legs, she created a small ring of light. “Come here,” she said to whoever had whimpered. “Carefully. Quietly.”

  Soft footsteps stuttered in her direction, then a small body climbed onto her lap. She switched off the flashlight and rocked the child as the pounding continued. Then it stopped.

  Thank God, Betty thought. But still she waited.

  A pair of glowing red lights the size of Ping-Pong balls appeared on the other side of a window, visible through the newspapers taped to it. Betty thought her heart would explode. The eyes receded and disappeared. A minute later, the truck drove away and she exhaled.

  “That was close,” Chuck whispered.

  “Too close,” Barry said at the same volume.

  “I want to go home,” Ashanti said.

  “Everyone, be quiet,” Betty said.

  A door closed upstairs and Betty stopped breathing. The child in her lap held tight to her. Betty stood and set the child beside Ashanti. “Hold each other.”

  A floorboard in the kitchen squeaked, and Betty drew her .45 from its holster and flipped its safety. Aiming her flashlight at the floor, she switched it on, causing children with terrified expressions to squint. She moved between them, careful not to step on any of them, and made her way to the stairs. Switching the flashlight off, she set it on the stairs before her and aimed the .45 where she knew the door to be.

  The door creaked open.

  I can do this, she thought, waiting for the footfall on the stairs. The gun shook in her trembling hand, and tears filled her eyes.

  “I’m coming down,” Rachel said, closing the door behind her.

  “Is it really you?” Betty said.

  “You’d better hope so.” Her footsteps grew louder.

  When Rachel reached the bottom of the stairs, Betty turned her flashlight on, illuminating her friend’s face.