I spotted him strolling between the endless columns of abandoned cars along the expressway, his hands tucked in the pockets of a brown jacket. A large sports bag hung from his shoulder.
Someone’s been scavenging.
I felt a tinge of anger, seeing how he’d gone off to get himself a nice jacket, leaving us at the mercy of anyone—or anything—that might’ve come upon us. However, he produced a white blazer from the sports bag, which immediately extinguished any ill will I'd felt for him.
“Good morning. It got a bit chilly, so I went hunting for some warmer clothes.” He handed me the blazer. “I got us some breakfast, as well.”
“Oh. Hey, thanks.” I looked into his dark-brown eyes. He looked almost exhausted. “Thanks for everything, by the way. You saved our lives yesterday. You don’t even know us. It means a lot to me. Thanks.”
“Well… everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to think it through. You guys almost got me killed.” He grinned.
I blushed, so I turned my face away while I tried on the blazer. I realized that, even though he joked about it, we really had almost gotten him killed. And now, instead of cutting us loose once the danger had passed, he’d stayed up all night watching over us and getting us supplies. I felt so worthless…
“I’ve got some good news, though,” he said. “I came across a sign up ahead, urging people to gather at a town just over ten miles to the east, in Suffolk County. It’s worth a shot.”
“Sure. Let’s check it out.”
Chapter 13
“Welcome to New Jerusalem,” I said, reading out loud from the wooden sign arching over the town’s entrance. It’d been painted in the same broad white letters used in the homemade signs guiding us on our way there. Small blobs of fresh paint gathered beneath each letter, as if it’d been hastily erected as soon as it was done.
A group of about twenty soldiers crowded around a heavy machine gun by the side of the road leading into town—the first troops we’d seen since our escape from the city. They handed out water bottles to the few children within the throng of refugees, promising the adults there’d be food and water for them later. Some of the adults shot bitter glances at the children, who cradled their bottles in between gulps, but no one dared act upon the evil surely brewing within them.
“I can’t believe this…” said a man farther ahead in the refugee column. Equally astonished voices rose around him. The reason behind their wonder became apparent as we marched through New Jerusalem.
Charming two-story houses lined the broad, clean street. Most of them had wooden exteriors, painted an immaculate white that took on a pinkish hue under the sun’s red light. Spacious, well-kept lawns surrounded each house, enclosed by short hedges, with a variety of lush trees sprinkled here and there. A recent model car sat in every driveway. In short, it was an average upper-middle-class Long Island town, just like all the towns we’d left behind on our way there—except that those had been razed to the ground by the earthquake.
“It’s like nothing happened here,” I said. Karla and Martin just nodded as they gawked at their surroundings. Broken windows, thin cracks on the pavement, and some loose roofing tiles had been the extent of the damage there.
That explained the contrast between the locals guiding us through their town and the people making up the refugee column. Some of the survivors trudged along the road in tattered clothes, covered in a rusty-brown sludge from the dirt, sweat, and blood clinging to them. In contrast, the townsfolk marched along the sidewalk in spotless warm clothing, making the white armbands they wore—presumably to differentiate themselves from us—superfluous. Some of them were armed as well, mostly with hunting rifles and handguns, although a couple carried military-style weapons. Their guns should’ve been a comforting sight, but I felt like a prisoner of war after a particularly one-sided battle, despite the locals' friendly smiles and attempts at casual conversation as they steered us through the town.
The size of the lawns around each house gradually shrank as we walked deeper into New Jerusalem. Houses made out of red brick rather than wood dominated the center of town, sporting only minor fractures on their walls. I spotted just a handful of short buildings rising above the tall trees planted along the road. People stared at us from behind the curtains as we walked past their homes, probably unwilling to admire our heart-breaking procession too openly.
“Hey, Becca, look at that.” Karla pointed to a clump of trees ahead of us.
“What?” I strained to see what she was pointing at. “I can’t see… oh my God. Is that blood?”
A small lake came into view as we marched past the trees. The lake’s placid surface shimmered beautifully… or at least it would’ve, had its waters not been stained an intense blood red. A wave of gasping and concerned voices took over the crowd.
“It’s not blood, Becca. The water’s reflecting the sky.” Karla looked at the dark sun’s crimson halo. “Look, the ocean’s the same color.” She pointed to the south, about a mile away, where the ocean’s glistening red blanket kissed the town’s southern border.
“I know that, Lala.” I gave her a playful shove. “It’s still pretty creepy, though.” Karla pursed her lips and frowned, staring at the scarlet lake.
Several refugees peeled away from the column and headed toward the lake, less than a hundred feet away from the road. Some of them went to examine the water, but most of them flocked to an announcement board at the entrance of a nearby picnic area. Our escorts didn’t stop them; they just exchanged nods with the four armed locals posted at the lake.
“Hey, let’s go check that out.” I said, and sprinted toward it. Karla seemed hesitant, but Martin followed me, so she did as well.
Karla and I slowly made our way through the crowd until we reached the announcement board. Several bits of paper with messages for friends and relatives had been pinned to the corkboard by people who’d taken refuge in town before us. Some had stapled wallet-sized photographs of missing people. Others had left notes with descriptions or rough sketches or even tracings—doubtless done by people with only the one photograph, which they couldn’t bear to part with.
“Do you think my dad or your parents might’ve ended up here?” Karla asked, browsing through the notes.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I held my breath as I studied every photograph, every sketch, and every line scribbled on the sad little notes… in vain.
A table had been placed next to the noticeboard, with notepads and pens scattered on it. I took a paper square from one of the pads and jotted down a quick message:
“Mom, Dad!
I’m okay. Karla’s with me.
Ask for us in town.
Your loving daughter:
REBECCA STIRLING”
It wasn’t great, but I couldn’t really express my feelings on a napkin-sized scrap of paper, especially not while other refugees pushed at me, desperate to get the pen I used. I shoved my way back to the board and kissed my note before sticking it up.
Please, God, let me find my parents.
Karla stuck hers next to mine with a prayer and a few silent tears. She managed to cram an essay onto the little square, every word barely legible. At least her distinctly loopy writing would’ve stood out like a flashing light to anyone who knew her, including my parents. We held hands as we pushed our way out of the crowd to where Martin waited for us.
“Aren’t you leaving a message for your family?” I asked, barely able to look him in the eye as I spoke.
“It’s a bit late for that.” He smiled rather sadly.
***
Our escort dropped us off in front of the sprawling two-story high school. Although made out of the same red bricks used in many of the town’s buildings, it lacked their quaint charm. The school had an angular, almost industrial look that gave it a sinister air. I couldn’t help comparing it to my own high school, and before I knew it, the memory of the school collapsing over my schoolmates rushed over me. I gasped and felt
lightheaded but managed to restrain my emotions.
A row of over a dozen desks lay outside of a large, cube-like building right next to the school—what was probably the school’s gym. The refugee column split up, and everyone lined up in front of a desk.
“Excuse me; do you know what we’re in line for?” I asked the woman in front of us. She wore a grimy navy-blue skirt suit with nothing but torn stockings covering her feet. Most of the refugees waiting in line had been equally ill prepared for the disaster, wearing clothes and uniforms for jobs that didn’t exist anymore.
“I’m not sure, but they probably want to get our personal information. I can’t see why they can’t give us some hot food first, though.” She glared at one of the armed locals milling around.
I only nodded in response. Talk of food stirred up my empty stomach, but fortunately the line shuffled along pretty quickly. Ten minutes later, I reached the front of the line. An old lady with fluffy grey hair and narrow glasses greeted me from behind one of the desks.
“Hello, sweetie. Welcome to New Jerusalem. I’ll just need to jot down some information about you, and then you can come inside and have some food, okay?” She spoke in a sugary tone.
“Yeah, sure.” I struggled to smile.
“So, dear, what’s your name?”
“Rebecca Stirling.”
“Age?” the old lady asked, jotting down my name.
“Seventeen.”
“And where do you come from?”
“Queens.”
The old lady raised her face. “Oh, my. Not many people have reached us from the city yet. It’s pretty far away, though, isn’t it? Like twenty-five miles, or so?”
“Yeah, I guess. Things are… well, they’re pretty awful back there,” I said. “Sorry, but have you had any other Stirlings here? Sarah or Robert? My parents were at work when the earthquake struck, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with them.”
“I’m afraid not, dear, but I’ll keep an eye out for them,” she said. I nodded, biting my lower lip. “Okay, now, if you could just tell me your religious affiliation, that would be all.”
I stared at the woman with my mouth slightly open for a few seconds, not sure of what to say. It struck me as an odd thing to ask, but given the town’s name and the ominous eclipse it shouldn’t have surprised me that their aid came attached to some sort of religious solicitation.
“Well… Catholic, I guess.” I peeked down at the cross on my necklace.
The woman squinted at me and leaned forward on her seat, placing her elbows on the desk.
“Did your parents have you baptized?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, barely able to make eye contact with her, but she leaned back in her chair, smiling.
“And have you had your first communion and confirmation?”
“I’ve had my first communion, but I haven’t had my confirmation yet.”
The old lady adopted the subtly annoyed look I’d seen on countless teachers whenever I explained why I hadn’t done my homework. All I knew about the confirmation was that I'd need to go through with it to get married in a Catholic church. I was about to tell her I didn’t plan on doing that anytime soon, but she cleared her throat.
“Well, you obviously should get on with that, but there’s no guessing about it; you’re a Roman Catholic.” She filled out the last space on the questionnaire with an “RC.” My stomach stirred again, but not from hunger.
What’s wrong with these people?
“Thank you very much, Rebecca. Now, go right in and have some food, okay sweetie?” She pointed to the gym’s entrance and waved at Karla to usher her forward.
I waited for her and Martin at the end of the row of desks. Karla’s interview went without a hitch, but she walked up to me with a worried frown on her face.
“Did she ask you about your religious affiliation as well?” I whispered once she got close to me.
“Yeah. I thought asking that was illegal or something.”
“Tell that to the guy with the assault rifle.” I tried not to look concerned as I glanced at the man in question. The mild sensation of being a prisoner intensified. A dozen similarly armed men patrolled the area. “What’s taking Martin so long, anyways?”
A steady trickle of refugees walked past us toward the gym’s entrance, but Martin’s interview with the old lady who’d registered Karla and me dragged on. The pleasant smile on her face had vanished, replaced by a scowl. Martin kept an easy grin, but he squared his shoulders as if expecting an attack. His instincts proved accurate. A pair of armed locals made a beeline for him. I rushed toward him as well.
“What are you doing?” Karla asked. I wished I knew.
“Just look around you, son,” the old lady was saying as I approached her desk. “Can you honestly say there is no God?”
“There might be a God, but he’s certainly not a God deserving worship. Just look around you.” Martin widened his grin… at least, until he noticed me standing next to him. He warded me off with his hands. “Everything’s fine here, Rebecca. Go back to your friend.”
“I’m afraid everything’s not fine,” the old lady said just as the armed men flanked Martin. “You might not be a bad man, son, but you’re terribly confused. Confusion’s the last thing we need right now. I’m sorry, but I think you’re better off seeking shelter elsewhere.”
“What the hell? You can’t just send people away like that,” I said, leaning over her desk. “Do the troops outside know you’re doing this? This is… this is just wrong!”
Martin gently grabbed my arm and took me aside. The old lady shook her head as the armed men took a step toward us.
“It’s okay, Rebecca. They’re only asking me to leave. I’m sure there must be other places where I can go, east of here. It looks like the earthquake didn’t affect the rest of the island as much.”
“But if we tell the soldiers outside—”
“They’ll what? Go to war with the town?” Martin sighed. “You worry about yourself. I’ll be okay. Now, go inside and get something to eat, and don’t give these people an excuse to kick you out as well.”
“You think I’m staying in this creepy place?” I looked at the armed men around us. “Screw that. We should all leave.”
“Don’t be silly. This place might be creepy, but it’s safe. There’s food and water here. I’m sure it won’t be long until things start getting back to normal, but in the meantime, this town’s your best bet at making it through… whatever’s going on.”
My throat tightened as I fought back tears of impotent rage. The stares and murmurs of everyone around us didn’t help. Despite my blazer, the air felt colder than ever. I knew Martin was right, but only because the world had become such a fucked-up place overnight.
He extended his hand to me. “We’ll be seeing each other again—don’t worry.”
Instead of shaking his hand, I stumbled forward and wrapped my arms around him. “Yeah. I know.” I felt his hands gently caress my back.
“Now, go inside and get something to eat—and a shower. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you could really use a shower.” Martin grinned.
I pushed him away and scoffed. “You don’t smell like a bundle of roses yourself, you know?” My tears finally spilled out, leaving a cold trail on my cheeks. “So… goodbye, then.”
“See you later.” Martin walked away. The two well-armed armed locals marched just a few steps behind him.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Karla said as she walked up to me and grabbed my arm. “We should get inside before there’s any more trouble.”
She led me through the rows of refugees waiting in line to be accepted into town. At first they stared silently at me, but their attention was soon diverted elsewhere.
A dark-skinned young woman with a white veil covering her head screamed at one of the guards as she swatted away the bag of supplies he offered her. The small child by her side—her son, judging by the way she embraced him—stared at the bag as i
t swung back and forth. Their argument lasted for a few more seconds before they were both escorted away. Maybe it was fear, hunger, or plain old apathy, but no one dared come to their defense.
“Just what have we gotten ourselves into, Lala?”
Chapter 14
I stirred the watery chicken soup with my plastic spoon, studying the sparse, cubed vegetables as they circled the insides of the scratched Styrofoam bowl. I could tell the bowl had been used a few times already and wondered if it’d been washed.
“You should eat that before it gets cold,” Karla said without raising her eyes from her soup.
A thin trail of steam rose from my bowl. I brought it to my lips and drank half of the soup. The bland broth warmed my insides but did little to cheer me up. Of course, not even a thick slice of Oreo cheesecake could’ve cheered me up. They’d sent the man who’d saved my life out into the wilderness, and all I could do was watch. Except for Karla, all of my classmates were probably dead. My parents were probably…
Oh, God.
I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to hold back my tears as I looked at the assorted benches and tables laid out in rows along the gym’s hardwood floor, all of them crammed with refugees. At one end of the gym, a team of cheerful, middle-aged women served food from large aluminum pots. My brow furrowed. They seemed remarkably normal for a bunch of bigots—they were wearing jeans, colorful blouses, and knee-high skirts.
The buzz of a thousand worried conversations going on around me slowly gave me a headache. An eye-watering stench of perspiration hanging in the air only made it worse. I took a sip of the purple juice we’d been given along with the soup, being careful to avoid the bite marks around the edges of the Styrofoam cup. The taste of sugar and chemicals flooded my mouth. They should’ve just given us water.
Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) Page 6