Black Parade
Beginnings Book 24
by
Jacqueline Druga
Black Parade
Beginnings Book 24
By Jacqueline Druga
Copyright 2016 by Jacqueline Druga
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Thank you so very much to Linda and Kira for all your help with this book
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Imagine if you will if the events of the previous six books DID not occur. Or happened differently. Black Parade is told by Danny Hoi and is a ‘what if’ book based on the cessation of time travel in Beginnings. What if things weren’t changed? What if Joe … was never killed in Beginnings?
While this is an alternate storyline, keep in mind … how Book 23 ended. What Robbie discovered and …could this possibly be Beginnings reality.
Black Parade takes you pre-plague far into the future.
I hope you enjoy the diversion.
Introduction
The Teller...
Man is meant to be extinct. He was not meant to last. I firmly believe that. A species short in span. A few thousand years. Not long in the evolutionary process. His lifespan from beginning to extinction … a minor blip in it all.
He simply was an error. Here today, gone tomorrow.
That’s what it was supposed to be.
But man had one thing that no other species had.
Will.
A will to survive and a determination to carry on.
Who am I to make this observation?
A storyteller by choice, a historian by chance. Depending on how you view it, I was fortunate or unfortunate enough to be alive for the last hundred years. A hundred years where in a half of a decade, fate and life threw every scenario at man to wipe him from the face of the earth.
But we’re still here.
Through every dark there is a light. For every down, there is an up. Eventually it will end up one way.
My role in this all is unimportant.
A mere witness, I was there from the start. Not the beginning of time, but rather the beginning of the end. Or so we thought.
In my lifetime, man has been to the brink and back more times than I can count. However, the question remains, is it the species of man as a whole or man as a ‘one’ that has brought us back?
Was it the spirit of the people or the spirit of one man that rallied the people?
I accept as truth, the latter. At least for myself. In m y experience it has always taken the few to shine a beacon of light when the many are swallowed in the bowels of darkness. They are warriors of life and soldiers of mankind’s fate.
They didn’t choose that path. It was delivered unto them via their genes.
This is the story of a few such men.
This story is a token of my gratitude to them and a symbol of everyone’s thanks. It takes the place of the statue that will never be erected in their honor.
It is the least I can do.
The Plague
1.
First Step
The world was besieged by a great plague. Wow, how was that for being cliché with writing? But, as melodramatic as it sounds, that line best summed it up.
The world wasn't in a perfect place, nor was the world ready to take the plunge into eternal darkness through the wrath of God. We were just living our lives, that’s all.
“Danny Hoi,” I answered my office telephone, wedged it between my shoulder and ear as fast as I could. It was easy, I had just hung up from another call.
May 31st. The day is as crystal clear in my mind as if it happened just yesterday.
It was a Sunday, but it was not unusual for me to be working. Actually, at the end of the month, it wasn’t unusual for anyone to be working. I was a designer and builder and owned a company that incorporated everything you needed under one roof.
When I answered the phone, I was hoping it was Marianne, my secretary. I had called her earlier because I couldn't find a file, but had no luck when she didn't answer.
“Daniel.” It was my father on the other line. He had a deep voice and a distinctive dialect. You wouldn’t expect such a resonating voice to come from a man of his size. Although he was a small man physically, in every other way he was larger than life.
“Hey, Father, is something wrong?”
He sighed heavily and I heard him take a deep long breath. Then he said, “Daniel, what are you doing?”
“Working.” I snickered. After all, he did call my work phone. I suspected he was going to scold me for working on a Sunday. I had my preparatory ‘bid day’ speech already planned out in my mind.
“I have been trying to reach you.”
“Really?” I asked surprised, grabbed my cell phone from the desk, and looked. Six missed calls. “Shit. Sorry. I had it on silent.”
“Have you watched the news, Daniel?”
“I haven’t had a chance. Plus, I can’t get on the internet for some reason.”
“There is a reason. I cannot believe you do not know of it.”
“Father, I’m busy. We have a bid going out tomorrow. A big …”
The sound of my father’s scoffing chuckle silenced me. He laughed?
“Father?” I questioned.
“Daniel, it is time to come home. You have been too engrossed. This is obvious. Come home, Daniel. You are needed.”
“What’s going on?” I asked with concern, grabbing my belongings in the middle of my question. After all, if my father was instructing me to come home, then something was wrong. He never did such a thing. Was it my mother? My brother?
“I will explain when--”
And then the line went dead.
“Father?” I clicked the receiver. Nothing. Hanging up, I lifted my cell phone. My father was the last call received and missed. I hit the ‘talk’ button only to be greeted with three tones and a recorded voice stating that all circuits were busy.
I was stricken with an immediate sense of doom. No reason for it, just a gut instinct.
Like a movie playing in my head, visions and flashes scattered before my eyes as I grabbed what I could and left my office.
I had left my home at six that morning and it was now nearly two p.m. Time had flown by.
I lived in Sacramento, California and at first I didn’t notice. It didn’t dawn on me until I headed to the parking garage to get my car.
There was no one in the parking garage booth. Thinking back, I realized that no one had been there in the morning when I came in. In fact, traffic had been non-existent and I couldn’t recall seeing a single person.
Was it my imagination?
The garage was empty and my car was parked near the entrance. Walking up the ramp, I jolted at the sound of a gunshot. Then several other shots followed.
Hurrying to get into my car, I started it, pulled from the spot and sped toward the exit.
When I got to the gate I slowed down to check for traffic. That's when I saw it.
Smoke was billowing up in the distance. More gunshots rang out. What the hell?
Within seconds, I saw a gang of six men racing toward my car.
One of them pointed my way and they all picked up speed.
Were they nuts? Not waiting to find out, I floored it.
The ‘thump’ against my car caused me to jolt again. I checked the rear view mirror. The men had hit my car with something although I didn't know what, but I was relieved to see they had stopped running and chasing me.
There wasn’t any time to waste. Turning the corner, I nearly collided with another
car. After swerving out of the way, I kept going.
What was happening?
As I raced toward the freeway, I looked out the windows. To my left three men were beating up a police officer. To my right I saw broken windows and looters. Everywhere I looked was madness.
I drove as fast as I could to reach the freeway.
My concentration was there. Not on anything else, but there. I was focused on driving and avoiding the chaos.
Until I was clear of the city, I did nothing but drive. There weren’t many other cars. As soon as I hit the ‘on’ ramp, I dialed the phone, trying my father once more.
Nothing.
A dead line.
Finally, I got the brilliant idea to turn on the radio.
Click.
‘President Hadly’s speech will be replayed …’
Switch.
‘…following orders from the President …’
Switch.
‘Authorities are urging all citizens to stay clear of the streets until …’
Switch.
‘Followed by a list of aid stations …’
Switch.
‘…Martial Law is in effect until …’
Switch.
‘… unknown origin of the virus or make up …’
Switch.
‘… To the emergency broadcasting system…’
Back. Switch.
Virus.
I listened.
I gained as much knowledge as I could.
The virus evidently had begun the day before. It had crept into the air while I slept and the world spiraled into a panic while I had buried myself in work in the isolation of my office.
My father was right. I was too engrossed. So engrossed that everything pulled apart at the seams before I could even put together my sub contractor bids.
And I … never noticed.
Ignorant and none the wiser.
My father was a clash of cultures. A Chinese immigrant, he was orphaned as a young boy, adopted and raised by an Italian Catholic family.
It always made me chuckle when we’d celebrate the Feast of the Seven fishes like any other Italian family at Christmas.
In his teens my father discovered he had a spiritual talent. The aspect of healing intrigued him. He studied the herbs and rituals and all through my life he was a healer people sought out. He was good. He was better than good. He was amazing. He had a magical talent. I never understood it, but people believed in him and whatever he did worked for so many.
Miracles. That’s what I would call them.
Illnesses that weren’t supposed to be curable, my father treated and cured them.
Knowing all this, why wouldn’t I expect a line of people at my father’s basement door where his practice was located?
I expected it. I envisioned in my head that I wouldn’t be able to get near his house.
If a plague had hit this world with a vengeance, then the ill would flock to my father.
To my surprise, the street was quiet.
Not a soul.
I pulled into the driveway of my parents’ modest home, stepped from my car and looked around.
Where was everyone?
Hurrying up the path, I didn’t knock; I merely entered, calling out, “Father.”
“Daniel, in here,” my father replied.
I recognized the direction it was coming from was the first floor bedroom. I rushed into the room and saw my father sitting on the bed next to my mother.
She was lying on the bed fully dressed and wearing a winter coat. A winter coat?
She coughed.
“Father?” I questioned.
He held a rosary in his hand as he stood. He paused to gently kiss my mother and then turned to me. “Her fever has risen. I fear your mother has now slipped into the next phase of this illness. Please, Daniel. Stay with her for a moment while I finish preparing. There is much to do.”
My head spun. He laid a hand on my shoulder, then walked by me.
“Sit. Sit with your mother,” he instructed.
I couldn’t breathe. I literally couldn’t breathe. “What has happened?”
Of all people, my father would know.
He paused in the doorway. “A great illness has swept this world, Daniel. Have you listened to the news yet?”
I nodded.
“Then you are aware. It is fast. Too fast.”
“Are you giving her anything? Herbs? Are you trying to heal her?”
My father looked solemn. He slowly shook his head. “There is nothing that can be done.”
“What!” I gasped. “Father, you cured Mr. Benson’s brain tumor. He was supposed to die. You’re telling me you can’t do anything about a simple virus?”
Calmly, my father responded, “Daniel. Tumors, cancer, they are nature’s beasts. My energy and medicines of nature can and do conquer the travesties nature throws our way. Unfortunately, Daniel, this is man’s work. And because of this, nature cannot defeat it.”
“Have you tried?”
“What do you think?”
Silence.
I felt badly at that moment for suggesting my father had done nothing. Of course he had. Looking around the bedroom, I could see the herbs everywhere.
“Stay with your mother, Daniel. I have much to prepare. She is a good woman. God will be sparing her soon. Stay with her.”
When my father delivered those words to me it caused my soul to ache. I finally looked to the bed and my mother who was lying there.
Sitting down in the chair, I reached for my mother’s hand. It was hot to the touch and she was unresponsive. Bringing my lips to her hand, I kissed her and closed my eyes. I reached up and brushed my fingers against the fibers of the wool coat.
Sensing my father was still in the room, I glanced over my shoulder. He stood there quietly.
“She’s wearing a winter coat,” I said. “Is she going somewhere?”
With a gentle smile and words that matched he replied. “Of course.” He paused. “Daniel, your mother asked to wear that coat for her journey. Look closely at the coat. Do you not remember it?”
It took a second and then I remembered.
My God. When I got my first real job I bought my mother that coat. It was expensive, but she didn’t have one and needed one for a trip to Washington. I didn’t want her to be cold or without a coat.
She complained it was too nice, too expensive to wear.
My father spoke. “Remember it, Daniel? Remember what your mother said when you gave it to her? She said to you that she would wear it to Washington but then she was putting it away. She was going to save that coat and wear it when she had some place very special to go. She asked for the coat today. She wanted to wear it. She is leaving for the most special of places.”
It was a reaction I couldn’t control.
I began to cry.
My mother, the most perfect of women. She never hurt a soul and never spoke a bad word of anyone. I couldn’t even recall her raising her voice at my father ever. She was a gentle being. And there she was ravaged by this unknown illness and wearing a winter coat I had given her a decade earlier.
She was lying peacefully and suffering with a quiet grace.
I suspected my father had given her something to comfort her.
My father finally left the room to do whatever he had to do and I stayed there with my mother. I kept holding her hand, watching her and absorbed what I knew were my final moments with her.
2.
Responsibility
My mother died.
Two hours after my arrival, she passed on. My father must have sensed she was going because he stopped his task and returned to the room. A few moments later she opened her eyes, smiled and left us.
I don’t believe it was the virus that took her. My father said it was her heart and God’s will. I accepted that.
What I couldn’t accept was his rushing me.
What about my mother? Weren’t we to call the authorities? Hospital
? Something? My father shook his head, covered my mother with a blanket, opened a window and said we would return to bury her. But he said we had things to do and had to go.
He wanted to just leave her there?
What was the rush? What about Sam, my brother?
Sick.
His family?
Sick.
Were we going there?
In a sense.
Sam, his wife and their children were all ill but were meeting us. In fact, they were already waiting.
Then I learned why there wasn’t a long line of people at my father’s door.
There was, at one time, a very long line. My father had sent them all away.
He sent them to St. Germaine’s church which was six blocks away. It had a huge school and hall. He had directed the ill to go there with instructions for them to bring a blanket and pillow for comfort.
Then my father got a hold of the authorities to inform them of the gathering of sick people. Leaving my mother before she took a turn for the worse, he went to the military aid station set up at a Sacramento Walmart. They were sympathetic to my father. At least the staff Sergeant Doug Bentley who was on duty was sympathetic. He did what he could, pulled some strings, lied and misdirected a delivery truck full of supplies to St. Germaine’s.
He had accomplished all of this in six hours while I sat behind my desk staring at figures. My father did all of this.
But he hadn’t been back to St. Germaine’s. His last phone call with Sergeant Bentley had informed him of the truck full of supplies and only that the people had arrived but nothing more.
He felt an urgency to get there and a responsibility as well. After all, he had set it up.
It could have been a complete failure. He just didn’t know. Only going there would tell.
In the two hours that I sat with my mother my father had proceeded to pack his car with herbs and supplies and raid several houses, including our own for food. He murmured something about me having to make another food run. I didn’t pay much attention. We were too busy rushing.
With reluctance I went with him. And I went with one question on my mind.
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