Out on patrol with his Marine squad one morning, he heard a sudden rustle of sandals on gravel to the right. Church turned, saw two people with AK’s pointed at him, and opened fire. Both went down before they could get off a shot, and while his buddies back-slapped him, he walked up to see what he had done. They were boys, no more than nine-years-old.
Despite the manly bravado and discipline of the Corps, and justified or not, Xavier Church just couldn’t accept that he had killed children. The Marines quickly realized he could no longer hack it, and quietly transitioned him out of the service. After a string of meaningless jobs, he found himself as a custodian in a Catholic high school, where a priest named Daniels took interest in him. A dialogue opened, and without realizing it Xavier opened his heart as well, expressing his guilt, his feelings of worthlessness and emptiness. He needed something to fill the void. Under the priest’s sponsorship he was sent to the seminary, subsequently took his vows and was assigned to Saint Joseph’s, where he could help those lost young souls on the street. There he helped create both the youth center and boxing club.
And, he thought, looking at the faces staring back at him, where you pretended to be a man of God for years and murdered yet another pair of boys. Where you broke your faith and let your entire community fall into hell on earth while you ran to save your own life.
No, there were parts of his life he simply didn’t need to share.
Then why mention it, he asked himself?
Tricia crawled up to her knees and clasped her hands in front of her. “Is this it, Father? Is this Armageddon? Are we all in hell now?”
Xavier looked down and shook his head. “I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, Tricia.”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “Has God turned his back on us? Can we still get into heaven?”
The priest looked at her. “I’m sorry.”
Her face twisted, got ugly, and she pointed a finger. “You’re a priest! You have to know! You can’t say you don’t know!” Then she started to cry and fled into the darkened office, her sobs muffled among the empty cubicles.
Over by the wall, Pulaski sat back and looked at the ceiling. “A priest.” He laughed softly, and for a long time.
TWENTY-ONE
Oakland International Airport
The Air Force wanted to call it an ‘Administrative Separation.’ That was their terminology, a less-than-honorable umbrella for an assortment of discharges from service, which included psychological instability. Due to the highly classified nature of his work, however, the higher-ups converted it to an Honorable Discharge. They clearly didn’t want someone who knew the things he knew leaving disgruntled.
He was disgruntled, of course. The unfairness of it all chewed on him for years.
“I’m sure you can understand why people are concerned, can’t you, Airman?”
“No, not really.”
“You don’t see how your behavior, especially considering your responsibilities, might cause others to be uncomfortable? Perhaps question your fitness for duty?”
“No. I’m good at my job.”
The shrink tapped a pen against his knee. “No one doubts that. But your C.O. is worried you could compromise the mission.”
“He’s a Godless philistine. He doesn’t understand our true purpose.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“Colonel Chandler says we serve our country by keeping America safe. He says it all the time. He refuses to accept that we’re merely instruments of God, waiting for the day when He commands us to scourge the sinners of the world by fire.”
“I see.” Tap, tap went the pen. “You’ve been quite vocal with this opinion.”
A smile. “It’s the responsibility of the faithful to spread the word. No one listens, though, and they’ll all burn for their lack of faith.”
“But not you?”
“I’ll burn too, of course. But I will be raised up.”
The shrink flipped a page on the clipboard. “Have you always expressed these strong religious beliefs?” He already knew the answer. If the young man sitting in the chair across from him had given any hint of this behavior back when he had enlisted, he never would have passed the psych screening required for his highly sensitive job.
Another shrug. “Not at first, I guess. But I know now that it’s always been inside me. A deep love of the Lord, untapped, waiting to be shown the light. That’s what He said.”
“What who said?”
“God.”
“God speaks to you?”
A beaming smile. “All the time.”
The shrink scribbled some notes and smiled back. “Let’s meet again.”
Sitting before him was a young man assigned to the missile silos in Omaha, someone who was highly trained and regularly worked up close with nuclear warheads. Someone who thought America’s nuclear arsenal existed to bring about biblical destruction, and who thought God spoke to him directly. He would be run through the standard battery of tests, as the regulations required, but the results of this single interview would be more than enough. Airman P. Dunleavy had touched his last nuke.
Brother Peter knew now that he had been wrong to be angry. Being forced out of the military was part of God’s plan for him, the first step towards his ministry. When that was also taken away, he had been angry again, but, as before, he had come to realize it was part of His plan as well. The Lord had something special in mind for him, but it remained a mystery. Thy will be done.
It was also clear that God had decided to forego the fiery destruction and skip straight to the Rapture, for this was surely what was happening. Those left behind would walk the earth as lifeless shells, and the faithful would be lifted up to heavenly glory. How much longer this would take remained to be seen, but certainly long enough for His purpose to be revealed. Peter had his suspicions, his guesses, and he believed it would involve culling the goats from the lambs. Thy will be done.
But like Job, he would first be required to suffer.
And he was. He was starving.
Brother Peter looked out a small, grimy square of glass set in a metal door. Behind him was a corridor leading to another door which opened into a barn-like room of baggage conveyor belts, the metal twisted into odd shapes by the fire, a stink of roasted rubber thick in the air. There was also a stairway which led back down to their subterranean world. Four people were here with him; Anderson, a female staffer, and both of the G6 pilots, whom he had quietly begun thinking of as Thing One and Thing Two. They were all, including himself, skinny, dirty and developing sores from poor hygiene.
“Get ready,” he said, his hand on the door handle. The female staffer and Thing Two moved up close to him, each holding an empty gray bin used at security checkpoints to hold laptops, shoes and pocket items. Thing Two had a hammer stuck in his belt.
Peter yanked open the door. “Now!” The two ran out with their bins, and the minister shut the door quickly behind them. He pressed his face against the glass, whispering, “Go, go.” A United food services truck sat a hundred feet away on the tarmac, its glass shattered, tires melted, sides scorched black from the fire. The rear, roll-down door was closed, though, which meant some of its contents might have survived the blaze. Peanuts, pretzels and cookies would be a feast at this point. Thing Two and the staffer ran for it.
The dead noticed.
A dozen were in view, and they looked far different from the ones which had first forced them underground. These were burned, without clothing, charred black from head to toe like beef ribs left too long on a grill. When they bumped against objects or each other, little puffs of soot rose off them, and pieces of charcoal fell to the ground. They were hairless and without eyes, wandering blindly, but they heard or sensed the two runners at once, and turned towards them.
“They’ll never make it,” Anderson moaned, standing just over Peter’s shoulder. He smelled like a chicken coop.
“They’ll make it,” the minister said.
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br /> And they did, at least as far as the truck. Both arrived at the back end, and the woman kept a nervous watch as Thing Two struggled to pull up the door. It wouldn’t move.
Dead chunks of walking charcoal let out a chorus of dry croaks and closed in.
“C’mon, c’mon, put your back into it!” Peter shouted, slapping the cinderblock wall beside the door.
Thing Two heaved, but the roll-up door wouldn’t budge.
“The fire must have fused the metal,” Anderson said. “Maybe melted the rubber seals.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Peter said.
Anderson shook his head. “We should have thought of that. We should have sent them out with the crowbar.”
Behind them, Thing One held the crowbar close to his chest and shook his head. Brother Peter elbowed his aide away. “I can’t stand your stink. And do you want to eat or not?”
Blackened corpses soon encircled the truck, and the staffer began tugging at Thing Two’s shirt. They looked around and saw that there was no way back, so they went to the front and climbed the bumper, the hood, finally up to the flat roof of the cargo box. Then they knelt and looked down at the things crowding in from all sides. More began drifting in from the field and emerged from the burnt ruins of the lower terminal.
“Shit.” Brother Peter stomped a foot. “Shit, shit, shit.” He threw his arms in the air and turned away from the door. “Well, it was a good idea, anyway.”
Anderson glared at him with eyes sunken deep in dark hollows, his skin jaundiced from weeks of poor nutrition and lack of sunlight. They had been living off vending machine snacks, moldy lunches found in employee lockers, and the occasional rat. There was no shortage of those. The bold little creatures crept up on them while they slept, sniffing at faces and often taking a bite out of a lip or earlobe. They were quick, though, and difficult to catch. On those rare occasions, they offered only a little meat. There was no way to cook anything, so the animals were eaten raw.
“We can’t just leave them out there,” Anderson said.
“We sure can,” Brother Peter replied. “Look out that window. More showing up every minute, all of them as hungry as we are. Those two are finished.” He started towards the stairwell, the remaining pilot falling in behind him.
Anderson turned and opened the outside door, yelling as loud as he could. “I’ll draw them away! When they start to spread out make a run between them!”
At the top of the stairs Brother Peter spun, his hollowed face paling further. “What the fuck…?”
“Hey, over here! Over here!” Anderson banged a fist on the metal door. “Come and get it!”
The charred dead began to move towards this new sound.
“Anderson, you close that fucking door right now.”
“That’s it! Over here, keep coming!”
“Now, Anderson. Right now!”
“They’re our friends, Peter,” he said, not looking back. “We can’t leave them to die. It’s not Christian.”
“Christian,” Peter muttered, reaching for the automatic in his waistband, except it wasn’t there. Then he remembered he had left it behind, hidden high amid a nest of pipes. There were only three bullets left, and he couldn’t risk using them or losing the pistol on a scavenging run.
Outside, the dead were leaving the food service vehicle and shuffling towards the doorway. As Anderson predicted, they were scattered, with plenty of space between them. “Now!” he shouted. “Now, go now! You can make it!”
Thing Two and the female staffer sat down at the edge and jumped. The pilot landed in a squat. The woman hit wrong, and she screamed when her tibia snapped and punched through the flesh of her leg.
The noise caused some of the dead to turn back.
“Dear Lord,” whispered Anderson.
“Don’t drag him into this goat fuck,” Peter snarled. “This is your doing.” God, how he wanted to shoot Anderson in the head. It would be worth the bullet.
Thing Two picked the woman up and put her over his shoulder, pulling the hammer from his belt and running for the door as fast as his burden would allow. He dodged and weaved, evading outstretched arms and once even shouldering a creature aside. When it fell its legs splintered, and the torso broke in half amid a cloud of ash. What was left tried to drag itself after them.
“They’re going to lead them right in here!”
Anderson shook his head. “They can make it.”
The pilot darted left around one of the dead, then had to swing his hammer at another. It struck at the shoulder, breaking off the arm and making the creature stagger just enough for him to get past. The woman howled with every step, her compound fracture bouncing against the pilot’s chest. He didn’t stop, and then suddenly he was five feet from the door, puffing hard.
Four of them fell upon him from either side of the door, lunging out of the shadows, twisted hands catching hold. He dropped the woman, who screamed when she fell. Thing Two started swinging the hammer, even as teeth bit into him. Anderson leaped outside and grabbed the woman by her wrists, backing up quickly and dragging her inside. Brother Peter slammed the door behind them as the dead took the pilot to the ground. More arrived to feed, and others pressed against the door, pounding at the thick glass and leaving black smudges.
Anderson was holding the female staffer, speaking softly to her. Brother Peter looked at them both, shaking his head. “Carry her back.” He motioned at Thing One, who handed off the crowbar and helped Anderson lift her. The woman shrieked.
“You better stay quiet, honey,” Peter said, wagging a finger. “Or you’ll bring them down on us. I know what they like to eat, and I’ll be happy to feed them.” He went down the stairs.
Life underground was a trial, and had become a timeless haze of unlit tunnels, dimming flashlights and constant hunger. They found a few tools, and managed to pilfer some suitcases without being eaten, which provided them with scraps of burnt clothing. All the toiletries were in trial sizes, and melted beyond use. Stairs which led to the main terminal revealed a vast, haunted house of blackened bodies drifting through spaces completely scoured by high intensity heat and flames, barely recognizable as an airport. Nothing of use there.
The network of tunnels and engineering spaces was untouched by the fire, but had little more to offer other than darkness and the occasional zombie. One of the staffers, the young man who had whined about going underground, walked straight into the arms of a hungry corpse when he opened a door without listening at it first. Brother Peter had been forced to expend a bullet to put the thing down, and then had waited patiently until his bitten disciple first died of his wounds, then arose minutes later. Peter switched to the heavy pry bar, relishing the crunch of the head when he connected. Now, after the botched raid on the food service truck, they were down to six, with one of them badly wounded.
Peter didn’t want to admit it, but it had been Anderson who made the discovery which kept them alive this long; the water. What few restrooms were down here had industrial toilets with direct plumbing instead of tanks, and the water in the bowls was blue with chemicals. Juices and soft drinks from a lone vending machine ran out quickly, and the only water fountain they found sat dry and silent.
“The sprinkler system,” Anderson suggested. He was right. Once the pressure in the system dropped off from fighting the unstoppable blaze, there was still residual water left in the pipes. They broke one open and caught a thin drizzle in plastic buckets and totes, repeating the process everywhere they went. It tasted awful, but it kept them going.
Brother Peter hadn’t congratulated Anderson. He loudly praised God for his gift, and quietly hated his senior aide even more. And now Anderson had done something heroic and saved a life. Might the others start looking to him as their leader? It deserved some thought.
They had made a home of sorts in a cluster of rooms somewhere beneath the northern end of the terminal. Peter was the only one who instinctively knew north from south down here, and had in fact committed the lay
out of the entire maze to memory. All his life he’d had an uncanny sense and nearly eidetic memory for directions, depth, distance and spatial differences. His time in the Omaha silos had only sharpened this ability.
A small break room was where everyone but Peter slept, people curled up on makeshift beds of scorched clothing, their only light source a large, battery operated work light which in the beginning had been a dazzling white, and which had now faded to an amber shimmer. The televangelist took over a small, adjacent office, and slept tilted back in a swivel chair with his feet propped on a metal desk. He kept the water and what little food they had in there with him, forbidding the others to touch it until he distributed it personally.
When they arrived back at their base, the remaining two staffers, a man and a woman equipped with a flashlight and armed with screwdrivers, were out hunting for food. Before they left Brother Peter warned them not to come back empty handed, and they had yet to return. At the minister’s direction, Thing One and Anderson carried the wounded staffer through the break room, and into a small locker area with a common shower at one end. They set her down gently on the white tile beneath shower heads which had been broken off but yielded no water.
Anderson squatted beside the woman and told her she would be okay, wiping at her tears with his thumb and offering a smile. She cried softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. Several minutes later he joined the televangelist in the locker area, hands thrust in his pockets. “That’s a really bad break. I’m worried about infection.”
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