by Joel Varty
The army squad helps us. It seems it was them who pushed the door open, but it was only by accident that Jonah was trapped under it. They crossed the swollen river on their little raft, says the leader, a Sergeant Thomas, having been lead on by an old black man standing in this graveyard.
Sergeant Thomas shakes his head as he walks past us to take the lead of our little group.
“Normally,” he says to me, motioning to Jonah, “we’d take a man that beat up to a medevac.”
Another of his squad, a big man, moves to take the first turn pulling the litter. Lifting it easily, he turns to me and says, “Normally when they’re this beat up, they’re dead, and we bury them.”
The curtain of twilight drops slowly and I turn around one more time, back to the forest that used to be my city, my prison, my home. I can’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes. I can’t stop from wondering how I, a simple man, a broken man, a failure, could be so involved in events like this.
The end of the world?
The old lady takes my hand, Herb Wiseman’s filthy hand, and pulls me gently forward with Susan, Amy, Steven and the others. I can’t help but wonder at the gentle power that her touch seems to invoke within me. She seems to have a handle on life, on not stopping or giving up for anything. She is like a living beacon of hope.
“What is your name?” I ask her quietly, curiously.
“Angel,” she says to me, barely more than a whisper. “Angel Black, but you can call me Angie.”
She stops abruptly after walking a few steps, and turning, she says in the same clear voice that she spoke to the people in church with, that she had roused Jonah with, “Come on, honey, you can’t hide in that tunnel any longer.”
Slowly, almost gingerly, a tall, pretty woman pokes her head up through the tunnel. Though I do not recognise her yet, she seems to belong with us. As dirty and hopeless and broken she appears, her eyes are full of defiance and strength.
Angel keeps her hold on my hand when we walk out of that place and onto our aimless journey.
After a while, out of the corner of my eye, I see the woman following us. Her beauty that lies hidden behind her makeup, clothes and demeanour seems to be released by the dirt and the shadow that blanket her in the dwindling light of the evening.
My love for her blooms then and there, as we wonder where we are headed.
Chapter Eighteen – With No Direction
Herb
We walk the deserted road northwards, trying to stay ahead of the forest that seems to shadow us, with growth sprouting forth from any exposed bit of soil, even heaving the very concrete and pavement up and out of the way as nature strives towards a new dominion over the land.
Looking back, all I can see are treetops and the shadow of the woman walking behind us, struggling along in her ruined shoes.
After a while, Sergeant Thomas comes back to walk beside me. He holds out his hand, and I shake it.
“Bill Thomas,” he says to me, with a vague attempt to smile.
“Herb Wiseman,” I reply.
We walk for a few minutes in the relative silence of tree trunks creaking behind us.
“Any idea what’s going on?” I ask, finally.
He continues to walk, looking straight ahead. “Apparently the growth continues for twenty-four hours, eventually slowing down to regular levels.” He turns toward me, this time the grin is unmistakable. “I expect the city will be one heck of a different place tomorrow.”
“It was different yesterday. Now I don’t even recognise it,” I reply, quickly, and a bit perturbed. “How do you explain any of these things, are they some kind of government experiment, or something?”
He resumes the forward-looking walk, and I am beginning to interpret this as him looking for the correct answers within his thoughts.
“They were supposed to be experiments,” he says, finally. “This city was supposed to be de-populated overnight so they could test out the effects of the Truth formula.” Again with the inward grin. “I guess the experiment went ahead without the intended observations.
“You see, it was supposed to be a kind of a plague technology. They were originally going to infest the place with crickets and deerflies. You know, just to see what happened, to see what they could do. They figured most of the people would be out of the way, but enough would be left behind to make the thing a worthwhile experiment.
“Well, the whole thing got called off when they discovered the formula didn’t actually work on anything the way it was described. I think most of the scientists had doubts about the project’s feasibility at this point anyway, all except a few. A few men who had a taste for power, who had just a little too much greed driving them to do just about anything.”
I struggle to take it in, and I can see the others listening closely, too, even the other members of Thomas’ squad. “How do you fit into this? Did you have something to do with that forest out there? Is that the experiment?”
Bill chuckles, a quiet, wry laughter that seems to be another one of his ways to delay the conversation long enough to untangle his thoughts.
“The trees are his doing,” he says, pointing at Jonah, still lying unconscious on the stretcher as it is dragged along the ground.
“I don’t know how he did it, but he must have something to do with the formula. I know he isn’t the guy who invented it, so it can’t be him.”
“How do you know that?” Steven asks from the other side of the group.
“Because the orders were to make sure Ruben Truth wouldn’t talk. And only the dead don’t talk.”
Something goes click in the long unused areas of my brain. I stop walking. “Who did you say?”
“Ruben Truth. The Truth formula is named for him. This whole business was started by him, or rather his brother – when he went and published the formula on the internet. It was the desperate hope that this research would help us unlock the potential for our survival beyond the carbon economy. Among other things...” he trails off.
He stops beside me, his eyes dark as he sees the misgivings blossoming in my composure. I point down at the inert form on the palette.
“That’s the brother. That’s Jonah Truth.”
Thomas almost blinks. He turns and continues walking, as do we all. He doesn’t speak beyond the brooding thoughts that have silenced his squad and most of the rest of us this whole time.
“So what are we doing now? Where are you taking us?” I ask, beginning to feel like I should be worried, but something in this man’s behaviour makes me know that I needn’t fear him.
“I don’t know where we’re going,” he says. “I only know we can’t stay around here, because they’re sure to find the body eventually.”
We all stop again, and everyone turns to look at Bill, except for the other squad members, who look sideways at each other.
“The body,” says Susan, when no one does. “Whose body?”
“The scientist,” Bill replies, quickly. “We were supposed to protect him. We followed him all over the city and finally he found what he was looking for.” He looks at the direction of Jonah. “Or whom.
“Anyways, he drew some blood out of the soil and was just about to release the plague when I shot him in the head.”
“No sir, I’m afraid you didn’t,” says the soldier who had been walking up front. “You missed his head and caught him in the shoulder. I took him in the other shoulder to spin him back around and everyone else,” he gestures to the others in the group, “pin-holed him up like he deserved.”
For the first time, I am quite certain that Bill Thomas is at a lack for words without simply buying more time to speak.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve claimed responsibility for a kill that wasn’t yours, sir.”
Thomas pauses for a moment, and then almost smiles as he strides ahead to lead the group forward. As he passes the man who just spoke, I hear him say, quietly, “You’ll address me as Sergeant Thomas, Corporal Rogers. I’m not a ‘sir’ yet.�
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I can’t help but think that he most likely never will be, either. But it doesn’t overshadow the fact that he didn’t answer my question, nor that Corporal Rogers seemed to provide an easy means for him to sidestep me and take up the front position.
Directionless, we head somewhat north along the side of the highway.
There are no cars, and the light of the day does not outshine our gloom.
From time to time I glance back, and I see a glint of shiny hair from the woman who is following us, whom I have not met yet.
I pay no attention to the clouds that seem to hover over the remains of the city, far behind us now.
…
Jonah
The pain turns to colors. Sparks and streams of light define my non-waking reality, in this world beyond sleep, where it is still possible to feel. The colors become thoughts. The thoughts become visions. The first image is a line of soldiers, walking slowly forward, one by one handing their weapons to Ruben, who puts them into a wheelbarrow, and turns them into a puff of grey mist. The next is my sister in law, Lucia. She is in her wedding dress, with a man to each side and one behind her, each wearing white tuxedos. Another man is in front of her with his back to me. He steps sideways to show an expanding blood stain from Lucia’s stomach. All of them except for her collapse, clutching their heads in agony.
This last vision is of Rachel, standing with a shovel under the oak tree where my parents were buried. Little Gwyn is riding in the wheelbarrow, while Jewel sits beside it. Rachel looks directly at me, but does not speak. The tears trickling down her face are reflected by the bright sunlight, and I struggle to turn my head away from the scene. Despite my curiosity, some force within me does not allow me to see what she is digging with that shovel.
Just as begin to suspect it is a grave, the power of lucidity brushing past my consciousness strikes me into wakefulness once more. I groan as only the truly broken and torn can groan; I feel that I have earned the right.
Squinting my eyes open, I see the clear blue sky above me and I feel the warmth of the day seeping into my battered limbs. My shoulder feels like it might be dislocated and my ribs hurt when I try to breathe. My mouth feels like it is lined with sandpaper. My tongue is like shard of wood, poking more soreness into my cheeks as it roams around my mouth in a violent search for moisture.
Somebody holds my head and I feel coldness trickle down my throat. A raspy, spastic cough is all the thanks I can muster.
I try to remain awake, but I cannot help drifting off once more.
…
Lucia
She trails the small group for three days. One of them always leaves a portion from his meal where she can find it. She recognises him from when he stood with Jonah as he stopped the crowds from throwing themselves at that building before they stepped into it. Strange how that seems, thinking back. Strange how this will all seem, most likely, once a bit of time has thrown some perspective over it.
Perspective. Vision. Knowledge. These are all concepts, thinks Lucia, that escape us when our lives are in transition. When our worlds have ended, we cannot know what tomorrow will bring. We find ourselves relying on a stranger leaving half-empty army rations on the side of the road to survive.
She finds herself looking for the slight glint of sunlight as it is refracted off his eyes when he searches in her direction. She finds herself wondering at how she can feel this longing, this ache, for companionship, when continued existence itself seems an uncertainty. If there was ever room in life for love, there most definitely should not be now. Love is the ultimate luxury that could not be afforded, especially by those who wield the power on this earth.
Is that it? Is it this new powerlessness that has brought on such an affectation of weakness?
Or is the realization that power has never been but an illusion, whereas the longing, the need for duality, is a new idea.
Lucia continues to shadow the group as she wrestles with her inner dilemmas.
Chapter Nineteen – Blood Brothers
Jonah
Eventually, I awaken properly. I know that this is so because I become immediately aware that two things are wrong. First: we are going the wrong way. Second: there are only ten members of our group that I can see, when I know there were at least several hundred people in the tunnel. They should not be left to fend for themselves.
With an effort, I roll over and stand up. Well, almost. I actually manage to prop myself on an elbow while somewhat making the appearance of trying to rise. Nine faces look wearily in my direction from around a small campfire. Their expressions tell me that I have probably done this before, and that they are becoming tired of my feeble attempts. A little more effort, and a lot of pain from those ribs down there (they must be broken, or at least cracked), and I am standing, actually, on two feet. My own.
“Where is everyone,” are my first words, almost a question, but I am not yet coherent enough to make it seem so to my companions. “There were a lot of people in the tunnel. Where are they now?”
The eyes of my companions seem to soften. One of them whom I have not met, and dressed in army fatigues, approaches me.
“Bill Thomas,” he says, reaching out his hand in greeting. I shake it, without much vigour. He pulls his hand back quickly as if he has been stung.
“Ouch!” he cries out. “I keep forgetting about this cut on my hand.”
He shows me his hand which is now covered with blood – apparently both his and mine. “I have the same problem,” I say. “I hope I haven’t infected you.”
He scoffs a bit at that, as if that it is the worry furthest from his mind. “Those are my men over there.”
I eye him for a minute before turning to my friends, the ones whom I know must have worked hard to carry me from that tunnel to wherever we are now.
“Herb,” I begin, “where are we?”
He stands and brushes his shabby pants off. “We’re three days out of the city, Jonah,” he says. “And by all rights, you should be dead.” He comes over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, and I notice for the first time that he is nearly as tall as I am, well over six feet. “You had a heck of a weight on your back.”
I almost chuckle, but the initial effort nearly doubles me over. I do give him a grimaced smile at the attempt of humour, though. I guess someone wants me alive, then, I think to myself as I glance over at the old minister in her robes, stirring something in a little pot by the fire. She is the only one who does not look over at me. I can’t help but wonder if she had seen Gabe back at the church. I almost get the feeling she knew something all along that I didn’t. Probably a lot of things. I wonder about her. She seems too much like Gabe and Michael – except less... disturbing. It seems that those two have been pulling my strings the whole time. I feel the need to change that progression, to start being the one making decisions.
“You want some stew?” Herb asks, bringing me out of my silent reverie. “These army boys have enough rations to keep us going for a while.”
I look sideways him, grinning as a thought is placed in my mind. “I’d rather go fishing,” I say.
The others, now convinced that I am not going to collapse and drift back into unconsciousness, rise and move towards us at the edge of the flickering firelight. They seem to be looking to me for some sort of guidance, and for once I seem to have an idea that feels solid to me, that makes sense.
“Don’t wait for me,” says the old lady, over by the fire, not having moved with the rest of the group. “I already know what he’s going to say.”
“And what’s that, Angie?” asks Steven, peering back at her, ever the suspicious one.
She doesn’t speak, just raises her luminous eyebrows and turns back to the fire.
I hesitate for a moment, waiting to see if she will reveal herself further. When she does not, I begin my short appeal to my unlikely companions.
“My friends, you have disappointed me,” I begin. Looks ranging from consternation and disgust to near horr
or echo across their faces. “You have let our people spread to the wind. We had a chance to lead all those people, those precious few who followed us out of that city, through that hole in the ground, out to a place where they can start again. You have let them wander off like lost sheep in a forest.”
“We kept you alive, Jonah,” says Susan. “We have carried you and dragged you for miles, and you mean to tell us now that we should have left you back there?”
I look back towards the fire, where Angie is now looking directly back at me, piercing me with her gaze. “You didn’t keep me alive,” I tell them. “She did.” And I point at the angel, or whatever she is, by the fire. She rises and carries the tin pot of hot food over to us.
She hands it to me, or rather pushes it into my chest, saying, “It doesn’t matter what you say, Jonah.” She turns back to the fire and sits back down. “It matters what you do.”
Everyone, completely enraptured at this point, and, I am sure, vastly disillusioned about what I am about to say, turns as one back to me. Their faces, although painted in the different complexions of who they were days ago, have merged into a group that I see now in a completely different way; they are special to me. It is more than that they have cared for me, more than the guidance they expect to get from me, if indeed they expect such a thing at all. No. These people have chosen their fate in a special way, and it gives me the courage to express my simple, yet conquering demand to them.
“Rest tonight, and tomorrow we will split up to gather everyone together again. We don’t know what the world is like anymore, and our people are vulnerable without our help.”
“How do we know where to go?” Steven has his arms crossed now.
“Well, nobody can have travelled very far in two or three days, so I guess there is about a thirty mile radius. Forty, I figure, if some people went southwest along the lakeshore.
“I don’t know what everyone will do, but most likely they will congregate together in small groups, either helping each other out, or trying to take what another group has. We don’t have much time before everyone starts to get desperate for food.