by H. A. Raynes
“Have you seen your father since your hospital visit?” Reverend Mitchell asks.
“No. And I don’t plan to.”
“It’ll be hard not to see him everywhere, now that he’s in the race.”
“I try not to follow the news. It’s too depressing.”
“Yes. I’ve had many sleepless nights considering our role in this war. But we saw it coming and it’s here now. It’s God’s will.”
God’s will. She researched the Reverend, knows the rumors. But she’s here to see for herself why he has countless followers nationwide. In all likelihood, he’s a victim of the press and politics, much like she’s been her whole life. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the FBI march in here and arrest him? She doesn’t believe he’s the man they make him out to be. Though she’s never embraced God to this point, who is she to say it’s not Armageddon? It certainly looks like it when she steps out her front door. The one line she’s drawn here is that she won’t introduce Sienna to this world until she explores it further. Obviously, her own crossing the threshold of Patriot’s Church was as much metaphorical as it was literal. But why shouldn’t she try religion? In the past, the only faith she ever followed was politics. She needs to know what else is out there.
“Do you feel at all responsible?” Reverend Mitchell asks. “I mean, your father’s responsible for sparking the flame. He brought the Mark of the Beast. That must weigh on you.”
Warmth spreads in her chest. Her voice is louder than she intends, echoing off the high office ceiling. “I don’t feel anything but anger toward my father, and I won’t take responsibility for his actions.”
“Still, you must carry some guilt at having a hand early on. As I recall, you were marketing the MedID. Putting a shine on it. Hiding its true nature.”
“When I worked at MedFuture, I believed the MedID was the greatest health-care tool ever invented. I never imagined how it would spiral. We’ve all been betrayed.”
“True.” His eyes are intense. “I’m sure you know, having you in my congregation is quite the spectacle. I need to be sure what side you’re on.”
“I’m on my own side. I’m sorry about the press, they’re relentless. But I’ve chosen to be here. I need to see if this is a better path for us. My daughter deserves a safe world to grow up in, and I’ll do anything I can to make that happen.”
“I understand. As long as you’re a member of Patriot’s Church, I will personally offer you and your daughter safety. We have our own schools. Our own doctors. And there’s no need for her—or you—to be in harm’s way.”
“Thank you.” They’re just words, but they sound so reassuring. It’s as though he could put an arm around her and envelop her in armor. “Now. What can I do? How can I help you?”
“We should work together.” Reverend Mitchell leans on his desk. “Your graffiti is well known. God gave you a special gift. Let’s use it to spread His word and our mission.”
Of course that’s what he wants. She hesitates. Maybe I owe it to the country, like a penance for being involved with the MedID. “Okay. I can use about any structure or surface as a canvas. Are you thinking of Boston proper? Or around New England?”
“Patriot’s Church is a brand like any other.” His words resound like a sermon. “We need to reach the younger generation. They’re the first to be genetically altered. The first to experience the loss of siblings because of DNA testing. A holocaust in vitro is being sanctioned by our government, and the victims are the brothers and sisters of these children.”
That’s extreme. Her imagination quickly paints pregnant bellies and a land of infant angels. And who is she to judge? She’d opted out of the testing when she was pregnant. The temptation had kept her up nights. To help her child before she took a breath could have been an unfathomable gift. But it also felt like playing God.
“Let’s take a walk,” he says.
With Henry trailing them, they travel through an extension of the church that looks more corporate than rectory. With her courier bag strapped around her, she attempts to keep up with the Reverend’s long strides. They didn’t discuss payment, so she assumes she’s donating her time. It would be funny if she used this as a tax write-off. The government would love that, and it would give her father a heart attack. She grins to herself.
“As you spread the word of our mission,” he says, “you should keep in mind the men and women who are BASIA. That will guide you in reaching new recruits.”
“BASIA.” Her tongue brushes the roof of her mouth. “Your militia.”
“Yes. I want you to meet some of our soldiers. Most of them come to us after facing death, after an attack, a betrayal of some kind. They’re seeking safety. Hope. When tragedy strikes, people remember God. And that’s when they find us.”
Over the years, BASIA has been in the news, though charges have never been brought against them. Public accusations run from corporate attacks to the Planes, and recently, the State House. She has to ask.
“Your militia,” she says. “What do they do, exactly?”
“Our methods are quite progressive.” His chin juts out proudly. “We find cyber strategies to be highly effective. So, under this roof, we wage a silent war. Codes are our weapon.”
What he says makes sense. Since the War at Home began, cyber attacks have rendered banks nearly obsolete. The stock markets are hacked monthly, turning the few remaining investors on their heads. And highly classified government secrets were being revealed weekly, until government programmers changed the way they encrypted their system. Perhaps BASIA does function in the nonviolent realm.
At the end of the hall, Henry opens a plain white door on which Private is stenciled. Inside, the room is dark and empty except for a few chairs.
“Activate BASIA headquarters communications,” Reverend Mitchell orders.
A smartwall fills with video feed of a room with twenty or so men and women who stand at attention. They appear physically fit. Maybe three or four are over the age of fifty. Some of the men sport buzz-cuts, and she wonders how many have served in the U.S. military. Her eyes linger on a face, a man she met a week or so ago. She thinks his name is Will.
“Good morning everyone,” the Reverend says. “I want you to meet Taylor. She’s going to help spread our message. Take a few minutes to get to know one another. Then get back to work.”
She whispers, “They’re training?”
“This Holy War will be won partially on a virtual battlefield. If you can succeed strategically, then the game is yours.”
“One-to-one chat commence,” Henry commands.
A soldier’s face fills the screen, and Reverend Mitchell encourages her to ask questions, anything that would help her understand their mission and to strategize for the Patriot’s Church brand. Perhaps just a taste of their passion, their goals, their lives, will help her to begin to shape this “brand” he wants to create. Without any time to prepare, she’ll have to wing it.
AS WILL ANDERSON, Sebastian sits at his desk and listens to Taylor’s voice. She is making her way virtually around the room, speaking to soldiers. From the surveillance data he’s collected it appears she lives a quiet, ordinary life. She doesn’t drink alcohol. Doesn’t smoke. Has no health issues. She pays her bills and is likely living off the life insurance from her husband’s death. She lives bare bones in a sketchy neighborhood when she could be living in a Safe District, courtesy of her father. She has no contact outside her daughter and babysitter; her close friends have all relocated, emigrated, or died in the past few years. Seeking out Patriot’s Church might signal her desperation at creating a community that doesn’t include her father, who she clearly blames for her husband Mason’s death. As a graffiti artist, she is occasionally commissioned, which supplements her income. Her work is decidedly antigovernment, which must be of concern to her father and the party that wants him elected. That alone puts
her at great risk, though from whom it’s hard to say. Last week Sebastian listened to a call on Taylor’s cell in which Mitchell asked her to meet him. Nothing notably suspect. Mitchell didn’t even call from an encrypted line.
Eventually, a window appears on his screen, inviting him to video chat with her.
“Hi,” she says. “It’s Will, right?”
“Right,” Sebastian answers. “Taylor. Looks like you’re getting the grand tour.”
She nods. “I’m helping Reverend Mitchell spread his mission. He thinks seeing behind-the-scenes might inspire my writing.”
“What are you writing?”
“Graffiti.”
Purposely, he waits a beat as though he’s working out a problem in his head. “Of course. I didn’t put it together until right now. You’re Taylor Hensley. As in Richard Hensley.”
At the mention of his name, her lips press together. “I don’t want to talk about my family.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“Yes. But—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to vote for your father.” He grins.
“Well that’s a relief.”
“The guy’s a regular hero. That State House footage when he pulls the agent on top of him?” He shakes his head. “That video disappeared pretty quickly. Lucky for him people have short memories. He’s a shoo-in for President.”
“Please,” she says. “Change of subject.”
“You have to admit, it’s interesting that the daughter of one of the most renowned senators—who happens to be an enemy of Patriot’s Church and BASIA—has joined Patriot’s Church. Wouldn’t you agree that’s interesting?”
She takes a moment, her eyes wandering. When she finally returns to the conversation, there’s no trace of anger in her voice. “I don’t agree with my father or his politics. Not that it’s any of your business. But don’t assume I’m anything like him.”
“Okay,” he says. “Got it. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.” She leans in closer. “You’re passionate about your beliefs. And you’re here to defend them.”
“Yes. As are you.”
“Yes.”
“Reverend Mitchell already has a million followers, doesn’t he?” he asks.
She smiles. The pockmarks in her face turn into dimples when her cheeks rise. The effect softens her whole face. “Doesn’t matter. Everyone always wants more, don’t they?”
“Except minimalists.”
The tension between them dissipates. “Your hand. Is that a training wound? Carpal tunnel?”
He laughs, holding up his bandaged right palm. “A new tattoo, actually.”
“The cross?”
“Yup.” It’s a necessity to fit in here. Thank God for laser removal.
“So. What does the Reverend have you working on?”
“Video games.” He creates a separate window for her to see a 3D game with several avatars in various forms: soldiers, supermodels, elves. Together they’re rebuilding a world that’s been destroyed. “Believe it or not, this is my assignment today.”
“Who are you?”
“The supermodel.”
She snort-laughs. “Nice legs.”
“Seriously, though, we’re able to use the game for Virtual Field Communication.”
“What’s that?”
“Using these avatars, BASIA soldiers can converse in the field. We can manage money, communicate directives, plan training exercises. Using an encrypted chat, we can interact no matter where we are. Right now I’m chatting with our team in Oregon and Minnesota.”
“Chatting sounds like you should be drinking tea and eating scones.”
“You should use that in your marketing. Come chat! Eat scones!”
More laughter. It penetrates the air, slices through the quiet.
“So if these people are so far away, have they ever been here, to headquarters?” she asks.
He tells her that most have never met Reverend Mitchell in person. Still, they’re devoted and they meet faithfully. The Reverend’s weekly sermon streams live to their local Patriot’s Church. On occasion a believer makes a pilgrimage to Boston. Some faint in his presence. Others have reported feeling a sense of calm come over them at his touch.
“Do you have that same feeling when you’re with the Reverend?” she asks.
“Only one person has ever given me a sense of calm.” The words are out before he remembers that he is not Sebastian Diaz.
“And who was that?”
Shit. He sniffs. “My wife. She died. It was a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Taylor looks off camera.
“So, does all this help figure out what you should paint?”
“It will.”
“I’ve seen some of your graffiti.”
“It’s not for everyone.”
“That’s art, isn’t it? I, personally, love graffiti.”
“I should let you get back to work. Nice to see you again, Will.”
“See you later.”
She leaves him with a warm grin, then appears on the soldier’s screen beside him. Sebastian knows he’s in now. A memorable exchange. From here, via Taylor, he can build a bridge to Mitchell.
August, 2032
Chapter 33
WITHIN THE MORGUE’S thick walls, Steven savors the silence. Here, there is no chaos, no discourse, no interruptions as he works on a body. If he’s honest, the reason he’s down here is to escape Sarah in what has become a more and more frequent “state.” Rehab didn’t take. She had returned home, a breath of fresh air, back to her lovely, fiery self for a couple of weeks. She even started painting again. But then one night Jonathan didn’t come home and there was a bombing downtown. The next thing he knew, the lock he’d installed on the cabinet containing embalming fluid had been cracked open with a hammer. He’d found Sarah in the middle of the afternoon lying naked on the front lawn talking to her dead mother.
He tilts his head, shifting his perspective on the woman that lies before him on the table. It’s taken eight hours to recreate her face. It’s a work of art. Her head went through a windshield and still her husband insists on an open casket. People are crazy. He slides her into a refrigerated chamber, removes his latex gloves and switches off the lights, closing the door behind him.
On the first floor landing, he checks his watch. It’s just past 8:00 P.M. and the house is dark.
“Sarah?” It’s quiet. This time of night she’s usually painting or preparing dinner. He wanders from room to room, then heads up to the second floor. A faint light shines from the third floor and he hurries up the next flight of stairs. At the top, the bathroom light is on, illuminating Sarah splayed on the floor.
“Oh God.” He drops to his knees on the cold tile, feels her neck for a pulse. No, no, no. “House, call 911.” Hands trembling, he opens Sarah’s mouth to check her airway, then begins CPR. An operator takes the information as Steven stares at his wife. Lips blue, skin gray, chest still. Going through the motions helps him to stay focused until the EMTs arrive. Leaning heavily against the nearest wall, he holds his breath as they work. From three floors down a door slams and a voice echoes up the stairwell.
“Mom?”
Jonathan. The kid is going to blame himself. Footsteps pound the stairs and Steven stands in an attempt to block the view of the bathroom.
“What happened?” Annoyed, brushing hair out of his eyes, Jonathan strains to see over his shoulder. “Where’s Mom?”
“The EMTs are working on her. I’m sorry, Jonathan. I think she’s gone.”
“What?”
“Gone.” A flash of anger makes his voice louder than he intends. He gestures with his hand in the air. “Heaven. Angels. All that.”
“Jesus Christ!” Jonathan pushes past him into the bathroom.
“What happened?”
“The body’s only meant to take so much.”
“Oh my God.” Jonathan repeats this over and over. He alternates between standing and bending over at the waist, hands on his knees.
Minutes tick by without words or tears as they watch the EMTs. At some point it occurs to Steven that they’ve stopped working on his wife and are packing up their equipment.
“That’s it, then?” Steven says.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hudson,” says one of the EMTs. “We were unable to revive your wife. They’ll be able to give you more answers when they do an autopsy. I’m very sorry.”
Though he’s seen it coming for months, he can’t believe she’s dead. He knows he should cry but he can’t. A pang travels throughout his body and settles in his gut. It’s a familiar, reoccurring dream. Never in his life did he think he’d be twice a widower.
Uttering something that sounds like a growl, Jonathan punches a wall. He flies down the stairs into his room and slams the door. Seconds later, angry, jarring music fills the air.
Steven asks the EMTs for a few moments alone with his wife. They disappear quietly down the stairs. Sinking down next to her, he strokes her cheek, her arm, touches her fingers. She’s still warm. His thoughts rotate automatically through the process of death. Scan, wash, embalm, dress, makeup. Scan. He turns her forearm slightly to see the MedID just under her pale skin. Her 83 is a prize MedID number. A true tragedy that her addictive trait overshadowed everything she could have been. Such a waste. Someone could get out with an 83. Someone could have a good life with that number. It would be a waste to bury his beautiful Sarah with her good fortune. He closes his eyes against the sting of tears and holds her gently one last time.
THE HOUSE’S COOLING system works overtime against the oppressive heat. Still, Cole is warm. He pushes off the cotton sheet, all of their bedding in a bunch at the footboard. Ian is long asleep but Talia is up for her usual midnight feeding. Cole reads on his tablet as Lily feeds the baby in a rocking chair that creaks with each motion. The sound is distracting. He’s been reading the same page for five minutes.