Twelve Days

by Steven Barnes

  The boy had found several folded sheets of butcher paper and colored pencils. He had begun a drawing of a house made of boxy rectangles. There was a sense of order about it, a feeling of design or depth that impressed Terry. What a kid. What a remarkable kid.

  He smiled, a sudden idea occurring to him. He puttered about in the kitchen for a minute, tending to his notion, and then dragged his dead ass to bed.

  Sleep fell like a storm.

  CHAPTER 47

  Three hours of heavy traffic had brought Mark, Father Geek, Pat, and Lee to the first roadblock on the road to Dahlonega.

  “Sorry,” the uniformed officers in plastic ponchos and snow coats said, pointing a flashlight into the passenger compartment. “We can’t let you through unless you’re residents.”

  “I understand,” Father Geek said. “Forgot my papers. I’ll be back.” He smiled and turned the Expedition around.

  “What are you doing?” Mark said.

  “Becoming a resident,” Ernie Sevugian replied.

  Geek turned into a gas station and booted up his computer. Humming, he hooked his laptop to a portable printer, made some adjustments, and loaded up a custom program. A few keystrokes and he was on a secure Web site stocked with a variety of driver’s license models, and quickly found Georgia’s.

  Humming, after a quarter hour’s work he had positioned photos of himself and Mark onto the template, which randomly generated license numbers to match. He looked up addresses in Dahlonega and gave one to himself under the name “Fred Kelly” and another address to Mark under the name “Karl Astaire.” He liked musicals.

  He gave Atlanta addresses to the others under randomly chosen names, discarding the possibility of “Rogers” and “Charisse” as entirely too cute.

  Entering the Georgia DMV database was trickier, and if it hadn’t been for the access to Homeland Security, might have frustrated him. But it was always easier to go top-down than bottom-up, and took no more than a half hour to find a way to insert the necessary information.

  He printed onto card stock installed with the proper hologram emblems, laminated them, and slid the result into his wallet. Mark did the same.

  He looked at it: not bad. It would hold up to a simple roadside check, and maybe a little better.

  They were certainly about to find out.

  “Scary,” Mark said in admiration.

  “I’m a scary guy.”

  An hour later they were back at the same roadblock, talking to the same officers, who didn’t remember them at all. “Sorry,” the officer said. “We’ve had to close the area to everyone but residents.”

  Geek smiled. “Residents,” he said. “With guests.”

  He displayed his driver’s license in the wallet, then pulled it out and handed it over.

  Geek felt only the slightest flutter of tension as the cop studied it. “You, too?” he said to Mark. Mark showed his wallet.

  The cop grunted. His attitude had changed. “All right, Mr. Kelly. And these are your guests?”

  “Absolutely,” Geek said. “We just figured this might be a good time to be out of the city.”

  “Times like this, you start asking yourself about what is really important in life, you know?” the cop said.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Pat smiled flatly. “We know what’s important, and we’re going after it.”

  “Well, Merry Christmas. Feels so strange to say that.”

  “Merry Christmas, Officer,” Mark said.

  And they drove through the checkpoint. Geek wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but he hadn’t breathed smoothly for about five minutes.

  “Well, that was kinda interesting,” Lee said. “Didn’t even check the computer.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Geek said.

  “Where was the last blip?” Mark asked.

  “About twelve miles from here.”

  “I think he’s still here,” Pat said. “Why the hell would he leave?”

  “Because he figures we picked up his scent?” Geek said.

  “Maybe,” Mark said. “But I don’t think so. I think he thinks he’s as safe up here as anywhere.”

  “What do you think is really going on?” Geek said after a silent mile. “I mean … do you think the president is going to die today? And if she does … and the rest of it is true … isn’t all of this just bullshit?”

  He was gazing out the window as the landscape slid by: Christmas decorations with an increasingly desperate air of joy about them. Geek hadn’t been home for Christmas in so many years he barely remembered eggnog.

  “What if she dies?” he said after a few minutes. “Tell me.” His hands were anchored to the wheel, and his face was drawn and overly strained. “And then the others die? What if we’re all about to die, every lousy one of us? What if we really have fucked everything up, and are paying for it with … everything? If this is the end?”

  “What of it?” Lee asked.

  “If this is the apocalypse, do you really want your last act before you meet God to be icing some motherfucker?”

  “Jesus,” Mark said. “Shut the fuck up.”

  And they drove on.

  Mark finally spoke again. “What would you do, if you thought this was it? I mean … if you really believed it?”

  Father Geek shrugged. “Well … the implications are pretty huge. An apocalypse, I mean a miraculous one, not an asteroid, or Godzilla. Something that implies divinity, or what they used to refer to as an ‘act of God,’ right?” He paused, considering. “I’ve lived a lot of my life assuming there wasn’t anything out there. If there is … and He’s watched what people have done, I don’t wonder He’s not pleased. I guess … I wouldn’t do anything to piss Him off any more.”

  “And if it was too late for that?”

  “I guess I’d just try to have the best Christmas I could. I’d wish I was with someone I loved. Try to make things good for her.”

  Geek looked in the rearview mirror, considered his allies and accomplices. Hard, dangerous men. He glanced at Mark, the tactical knuckle-dragger. Something in Mark’s eyes reflected a tiny bit of softness, some feeling rather than mere thought.

  “Just … don’t,” Mark said.

  “Hell, no,” Geek said fervently.

  And they drove on through the drifting snow.

  CHAPTER 48

  Hannibal awakened slowly, anxiously. His dream had threatened to turn into the Game, the altered Game, with the beautiful house slowly overtaken by forest. He knew that in the forest was the girl, and although he didn’t understand, he knew that he didn’t want to meet the girl, here or anywhere else, and that she was coming after him.

  He didn’t want to be there anymore. And he didn’t know how to prevent it, since no matter what he did he had to sleep. Waking was better but eventually, no matter what he did, he would sleep.

  Hani looked around himself and saw an unfamiliar room. “Mommy?” He said. “Nicki?” Then: “Terry?”

  He levered himself out of bed and walked to the dresser, and touched it. Strangeness. He opened the door and tottered into the living room. He opened and closed each drawer he passed, in turn.

  Cutout paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” played on a staticky radio, and the smile made his face hurt. His entire family awaited him there. Nicki and Mommy and Pax … and Papa Terry! Christmas cookies were heaped on plates in the dining room. Hannibal danced up and down with joy.

  Nicki, Terry, and Olympia held clumsily wrapped packages out to him. He ran and jumped into Nicki’s arms.

  “Merry Christmas!” the three of them called.

  “Merry Christmas!” he called in reply.

  He hugged them, smooched and held them, and then tore open the presents. Nicki was glowing.

  “And these are for you,” Terry said to Nicki and Olympia, and handed them packages wrapped in aluminum foil.

  Nicki radiated joy, but Mommy looked a little sad. “I didn’t get anything for
you,” Olympia said.

  “I don’t remember the last time I had Christmas with a family,” Terry said. “That’s pretty much the best gift I could have, right there.”

  He kissed her like people kissed in movies.

  Nicki gasped. “Mom!”

  Olympia leaned away from Terry and grinned. “Shh. Go away. Nothing to see here.”

  * * *

  Terry felt as if his eyes were hungry video cameras, soaking in every expression of pleasure, every squeal of glee as they opened the packages and discovered heartfelt makeshift presents within. For Nicki a DVD of Joss Whedon’s Much Ado About Nothing, filched from the wall case. A bouquet of winter-blooming camellias gathered from a small self-sustaining garden in the cabin’s sun room for Olympia. And for Hannibal, one of the kitchen pens. A Uni four-color multifunction pen, sturdy as a railroad spike. For Pax, a thawed beefsteak from the freezer.

  Best of all, Hannibal bounced and glowed as if he’d been given the keys to FAO Schwarz.

  “Terry…” Hannibal said. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  If in Terry’s life he had known a moment sweeter than the hug that followed, it was entirely beyond his capacity to recall it.

  * * *

  The day was glorious, as if the tribulations of the outside world could not touch them. The ground was blanketed with white, and they engaged in snowball fights, sledding, and creating a small but sturdy army of snow elves, half of which were promptly demolished by an enthusiastic Great Dane. Good old-fashioned fun. An eye of calm amidst the storm.

  Olympia leaned against Terry. “So … do you think we can risk going into Dahlonega? I’d like to lay in some supplies.”

  Terry could imagine an entire world of problems with that idea. “I’m not sure you should show your face around here.”

  “We still need the supplies,” she said.

  Nicki perked up. “I’d like to go!”

  He considered. They really could use some fresh fruit … maybe some other things as well. “All right … I’ll go by myself. They obviously know who you are, so we can assume they’d recognize Nicki. It doubles the risk. I think it might be better if you give me a list.”

  She found a scrap of paper in one of the kitchen drawers, and scrawled out her requests with Hannibal’s pen. Terry found himself enjoying the simple play of muscles in her toned, lovely forearms as she wrote.

  Uh-oh.

  “Here,” she said and held the list out. “If you can find a convenience store, that would be great. If a grocery store, there are a couple of other things we can use. But there’s one thing I didn’t put on the list.”

  “What’s that?”

  She put her arms around his neck. She stood on tiptoe, pressed her lips against his, and warmed him with the slightest, most discreet pressure of her hips. Then she whispered in his ear, “Hurry back, soldier, and report for booty.”

  “Roger that.”

  They kissed again, far more thoroughly this time.

  “Mom! Terry! There are children present!” Nicki squealed, as Hannibal clapped delightedly.

  Terry broke the kiss, grinned at the kids. “‘For I am rough,’” he said, “‘and woo not like a babe.’”

  Nicki goggled at him. Yeah. Got ya. He shrugged modestly. “There’s a Complete Works of Shakespeare on the shelf.”

  Terry ruffled Hannibal’s head. “What can I bring you?”

  “Bring me Terry,” he said. “And animal crackers. They stale.”

  Nicki came over to him. Her liquid brown eyes were so vulnerable, so open and trusting and loving that he could hardly meet them. “I don’t know how all of this is going to turn out…” she began.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said.

  “Will you please shut up? I just wanted to say something.”

  “All right.”

  “‘My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.’”

  Terry winced. “What does that mean?”

  She shuffled a bit, breaking eye contact. “It means that I say what I’m thinking. And that means that sometimes I said some mean things to you.”

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  “No. It’s not. Because it’s like you said last night. What if this is all that there is? And what if it’s almost over? We could be dead tomorrow. Or worse. And I need to tell you that … if there was going to be someone who would be with Mom. Be with us. To be kind of like a dad … I’d pray to God it was you. No one else but you. I love you, Terry.”

  He blinked. Hard. His own relationship with his father had been one of respect and awe … but he was not at all certain Captain Nicolas had ever said those three simple words, “I love you.” Could that be possible? Then he realized that he was forcing back tears. “That might be the best thing anyone ever said to me.”

  She brushed his cheek with her lips. “Come back.”

  Then, suddenly shy again, Nicki backed away. She and Hannibal held each other, and Pax panted by their side, exhaling vaporous clouds of doggy breath.

  * * *

  Terry slid behind the wheel of the Cherokee. The engine turned over on the third try, and he let it run for ten minutes to let things warm up. While he waited he searched the glove compartment: a package of gum, a flashlight, a disposable Samsung TracFone with half a charge. A map of North Carolina. He slammed the door shut and pulled out of the drive, vapor gushing from the tailpipe.

  Terry drove the Jeep slowly down the road, looking both ways at every opportunity. The roads glittered with virgin snow, and his wheels crunched through the icy surface. A few small streams of smoke rose from chimneys dotted across the valley. The world looked like a Hallmark card. Terry found Christmas music on the radio, and sang his heart out.

  * * *

  It took twenty minutes of careful grinding along icy paved and unpaved roads to reach Dahlonega. Hiding his face beneath an Atlanta Falcons football cap, Terry made his way slowly through the sparsely populated streets. A police car cruised past. The officer looked at him, and he waved. The officer nodded back, unenthusiastically, a haunted expression on his pale flat face.

  Terry pulled into the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly market. THE FIRST TRUE SELF-SERVICE GROCERY STORE! a faded sign declared. The streets were quiet. He parked and got out of the car. A banner above the doorway read OPEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

  Ho, ho, ho.

  He entered, and took a cart.

  “Merry Christmas!” a clerk called. He was an amiable, ugly young man with great energy. He reminded Terry of Kermit the Frog, except for the part about being green and amphibian.

  “Merry Christmas back atcha,” Terry said. “Sorry you have to work today.”

  The clerk grinned. “Earning double time, man! Picking up a few last-minute things?”

  “Yep.” Terry noted the sale signs. Everything seemed to be a bargain. “Having an end of the world sale?”

  The clerk barked laughter. “You know that my boss buys into that crap? He gave me double time to come in, just dumping his cash. It’s like Tarzan throwing Cheetah off his back before he jumps for a vine.”

  “Colorful, if slightly confusing image. What if he’s right?”

  “I’ll spend it fast.”

  “Do that.”

  Terry rolled his cart down the aisles, looking up and down the rows carefully. Nobody, save for one other shopper, an elderly woman in a caterpillar-green sweater pushing a creaking cart with wobbly front wheels.

  He quickly gathered his items, and took them to the front register.

  “Find everything you wanted?” the clerk asked.

  “Nope,” he said. “But everything I needed.”

  “Mick said it best.” The kid grinned.

  And together, they broke into spontaneous song. “‘You can’t always get what you waaant…’”

  They laughed. Damn, it felt good to laugh. Terry felt it had been too long since he’d had anything to laugh about, and let the mirth roll out of him like a river.

>   Behind him, the creaking of unoiled wheels.

  The old woman had pushed her shopping cart up behind them. She tried to smile, but her makeup was skewed, messy, overdone. Streaked. Her socks were mismatched: argyle blue and solid yellow.

  “Are you all right?” Terry asked.

  She smiled, the smile too bright by half. “All right. It’s all right.”

  “Really. Are you?”

  Her lip trembled.

  “Go on ahead, won’t you?” he said, making a space for her.

  “Thank you,” she said. And then almost as if she’d already forgotten she’d said it, she repeated her words. “Thank you.”

  The clerk rang her things up. As he did, she looked shyly at Terry. “You’re a kind young man. Do you have someone?”

  “Excuse me?” he asked. There was something in her eyes. As if she had spent the morning peering into the mirror, searching for the girl she had once been. He had the sense that every old woman did that, searching for something gone forever. “A sweetheart to be with. You shouldn’t be alone. After all…” She smiled brightly, with small, brown, evenly-spaced teeth. Too brightly. “This is the last Christmas.”

  “Yes. I have someone.” He wasn’t sure what she meant. And then he understood.

  “I’m a survivor,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Cancer survivor.”

  He found a smile. “Congratulations. How many years?”

  “Seven,” she said. “It came back.”

  His good mood darkened. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m a widow woman,” she said. “I prayed for a miracle. I told God I didn’t want to die alone. He misunderstood. I didn’t mean for the whole world to die with me.”

  She touched the counter, as if dizzy and needing a steadying reference point. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “If this is my fault, if this is all me … I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  She took her groceries and tottered out of the store.

  “Jesus Christ,” the clerk said.

  “No,” Terry replied. “The other guy.”