Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3)

by Thomas Gondolfi

  Dear Renee,

  I’m the last one here now. The Research and Engineering Corps all cleared out about an hour ago. They took everything they could and headed to that new Metro habitat. Of course they left all the mechs down on the factory floor. They were pretty spooked after the enemy got a worm in up north and turned them against us. I understand that because I don’t want to be sitting here only ten levels up from eighty-six of those damned things when they can get turned into murder bots.

  So here’s where I’m pretty much screwed. Since I am the last one here, I have to make sure nothing gets in here and gets control of these monsters. I’ll set one up on perimeter and program it not to let anything in. Once that’s done I’ll cut the main line to prevent anyone from hacking in. That should keep the ones down below locked away.

  I know what you are thinking and you can’t wait for me. Get the kids and head south. Attached are maps of where the shelters are down there. Print it out because the network won't be online much longer. Give them my service number and that should get you in.

  I have to do this. If this site isn’t secured these things could wipe out everything.

  The only thing that makes me okay with this is that you and the kids will be safe. Don’t wait any longer, print the maps and go. Those shelters will stand. Get in one of them.

  All my love,

  Joe

  * * *

  “Damn,” the boy whispered to himself. Out of habit he looked around for his Da and an incoming smack for swearing. He looked at Joe's skeleton with newfound respect and sadness. Checking the map on the terminal, he confirmed that it had been copied into the journal.

  “Boy! You had better find that terminal!” First’s call jolted the boy back to his own world of After.

  He tapped the buttons to get out of the messages and worked his way into Security. The journal had instructions for getting through the Security part of the terminal. It led him to a part with two options. He found himself staring at the glowing letters for “System Shut Down” and “System Reset.” He knew the Scribes wanted inside this place. If they knew about the terminal, what else did they know? Did they think that they could take control of the mech? Maybe they even knew of the ones Joe said were below. The idea of those two in control of any mechs sent a shiver through him. The journal said that the reset would only stop the mech for a short time, maybe two hundred seconds. Once it started up again this place would be secure. But if he did that, the Scribes would kill him and more of his people.

  Staring at the terminal he thought of a barter, one where he would have the strength. He picked up the gun, a small piece of tek from the table that reminded him of something, and the journal. Then he made his choice and hit a key.

  The mech stopped.

  Shock rippled through the Scavs and Scribes alike. They all stared for a long moment disbelieving their eyes.

  Then the boy walked out of the Goal Building.

  Walked. Not ran.

  He held up the small piece of tek in his hand.

  “I found the terminal, and now I am in control of this mech and the others inside!” he called across the flat expanse of the tarmac to the Scribes up on the dunes.

  They watched in stunned silence as the boy walked out onto the smoothstone. He walked with no apparent rush. As he crossed the pockmarked expanse he hopped lightly over the ruts of the mech's path. He walked just a few strides away from the massive death machine as calmly as if he was strolling through the tents of his tribe.

  “Boy! What did you do?” First called. “You’re going to get people killed—”

  “Shut up,” the boy interrupted him.

  “What?” First called back in surprise and then turned to Second. “Shoot her. Teach this little boy that we aren't playing games.”

  A loud crack-ping echoed across the wastes and a cry erupted from the people around First. He looked back at the boy, who was holding a gun pointed at the mech. The boy had actually shot the mech.

  Yet there it stood, motionless.

  “I said ‘shut up.’”

  First just looked back in shock.

  “I know what you want in there, but I found it first. I found it and now I control the mechs with this,” the boy said and held up his small piece of tek. He was too far away for First to make out any details of the device.

  “So let me tell you what you two are going to do.” The boy now began to walk toward the fence line, counting the seconds in his head.

  “Drop your weapons and leave. Go as fast as you can away from here. Tell the rest of your tribe to never come back.” The boy continued to walk slowly toward them. “If I can still see you when I get to ten, the mech will kill you both.” He still held up the device in one hand and the gun in his other.

  “One . . .”

  The two Scribes looked at one another.

  “Two . . .”

  First held up his gun and then dropped it into the sand at his feet.

  “Three . . .”

  Second dropped his gun and then the two men turned and started to run up the hill away from the fence line.

  “Four!” The boy yelled loudly after them and started to walk as fast as he thought he could without them noticing.

  The Scribes crested the hill, and then First stopped. He looked back down on the fence, the tarmac with its destroyed vehicles, and the set of now unreachable buildings. He took a second to lament the treasures lost inside to these savages. The mech still stood motionless and the boy was still walking toward the fence holding the device and the gun.

  “Five!” the boy screamed up at him.

  First turned and ran over the hill and out of sight.

  The boy immediately broke into a sprint toward the fence line.

  “Six!” he called out after the Scribes, trying to keep count of his other seconds in his head.

  He reached the fence line and climbed it as quickly as he could. At the top he pushed down the claw wire and scrambled over it.

  “Seven!” he yelled from atop the fence, and then dropped down. The wire grabbed at his shirt and his skin, tearing a bloody line across his side and pulling something free that he had at the small of his back. He hit the ground and started to run to the start line. He clutched at his bleeding side, and saw what had fallen. He skidded to a stop in the sand and then turned back and run-crawled to the fence to grab the fallen item.

  The mech suddenly began to move. Its head turned first one direction and then the other. The lower weapon arm turned and zero’d on the boy as the bluish light began to boil up from its innards. The boy turned again and launched himself toward the start line.

  He crossed it just as the blue beams lanced along the edge of the tarmac behind him.

  He rolled to the ground and lay there breathing heavily. He could not bring himself to open his eyes, and instead just listened. He now clutched the journal with the scribbled maps of the southern shelters in one hand, and the gun in his other. His tribe would be safe, as long as they survived the next few seconds. Would the mech go back to its patrol? Or would something change because he had reset it?

  He listened and waited.

  * * *

  “So it’s okay to lie?”

  “No, you don’t want to lie. You want to barter from strength. Never weakness.”

  “So you can lie that you are strong?”

  “No. You always want to seem strong. To make others think you are.”

  “So you lie.”

  “No. That’s what makes it hard. To project strength, even when you don’t have it.”

  “So lie about it . . .”

  “Why are you so difficult? Just act strong, always. Then others won’t try to take from you because they think you are weak.”

  “Still think that’s lying . . .”

  His Da groaned.

  * * *

  The rumble of the mech echoed off the smoothstone as it resumed its restless patrol along the ancient worn path.

  A Canticle for Mother
Goose

  Kevin Wetmore

  Editor: Sometimes we just shoot ourselves in the foot.

  By the thermometer on the wall next to the bed, Father Daniel saw it was already one hundred twenty degrees indoors and the sun was just rising, not even one hand over the horizon. Today would be a very hot Sunnyday. Still, the Lord calls, and his people, his flock, need him.

  He sat up, already tired from the heat before being fully awake. He whispered a quick prayer to Farmer for strength, patience, and deliverance and stood up. The dust fell from his body and blanket, adding to the eddying quantity on the floor. Absentmindedly reminding himself to sweep before bed tonight, he went to the bathroom to make his morning ablutions.

  He ran his hands through the ashes and then placed some on his face, scrubbing with vigor, hoping to wake himself while cleaning. He used a facecloth to remove the ashes and felt better, less slovenly. Cleanliness is next to godliness, he reminded himself. Farmer would approve.

  He looked through the dust on the mirror at his white hair and weathered face. He had been named after his mother’s favorite hymn. She used to sing it to him as he fell asleep before the scorching times. He still found himself occasionally singing “God looks like Daniel, must be clouds in my eyes,” when he needed strength. He knew Daniel was a prophet of the Lord, who was put in a lion’s den by Businessman, but since Daniel found favor with Bingo, Bingo put clouds in men’s eyes and sent a plane to take Daniel to the Promised Land in Spain. It was Father Daniel’s secret sin that he was proud that God might look like him. Although he did not work the earth like the Farmer, he wanted to think the Farmer might have a face like his.

  Dear Lord, he thought, from hoping He approves of my morning purification to one of the seven deadly sins in imagining the Farmer looks like me in my pride, I shall have to say an extra act of contrition today.

  He returned to his bedchamber in the rectory and removed his sleeping gown and replaced it with his cassock, which was freshly laundered. He always wore a clean cassock on Sunnyday. It was important for his flock to see his respect for them and his devotion to the Church. It was hard enough to maintain living in the valley since the scorching times; he must remind them of the importance of feeding their souls as much as their bodies, perhaps even more so.

  In the sitting room at the front of the rectory, he removed a jar of water and drank deeply but slowly. He would eat later, after communion, but it was important to stay hydrated. Indeed, does Farmer not tell us, “There is nothing better for a man than to drink and tell himself that his labor is good”? Daniel drank the water, felt its coolness slide down his throat, giving him strength, cleaning his gorge so that he might preach the word of the Lord to his flock. He offered a quick prayer of thanks, returned the empty jar back inside the cabinet, and left the rectory for the sanctuary across the way.

  Daniel did not walk directly to the sacristy, but took the long way around to the front of the building. He stood in front of his church and once again marveled at the glory of Farmer. A large, faded sign in front of the building featured black paint on whitewashed wood, both faded with age: “Most Holy Name.” Underneath (to protect the holy name, Father Daniel assumed), was faded black felt with white letters saying “Bingo.” And below that, “Tuesday Night at 7:30.” Under that, the whitewashed wood continued and it concluded “Rom athlic Church,” as some of the letters were faded. The sign gave him comfort. He knew who he was when he looked at it. He knew God was good when he looked at it. He was the priest of Most Holy Name Bingo, of the Romathlic Church, the one true faith. Father Daniel provided the spiritual leadership of the entire community of the Field of Bakers. Even those not of the Romathlic faith knew him as a good, just, and wise man, the moral center of their community and the oldest among them. He personified wisdom in his community.

  “So much pride today,” he reflected. “No doubt Farmer will test me to remind me to be humble in His sight.” Still, since the scorching times the people of the Field of Bakers had settled into a life. They managed to stay alive, raise families, and stay faithful to Farmer, even when He tested them. Farmer loved and blessed the people of the Field of Bakers and that is why when all else in Cali had been destroyed, when all other communities had passed, they remained and flourished, in their way, in the sight of Farmer.

  Daniel unlocked the doors, entered, and moved quickly but not hurriedly to the sacristy. The holy room had to be at least one hundred forty degrees. He adjusted his robes and put on his vestments. He then moved back to the narthex and threw the doors open, just as the first families of his flock arrived.

  He stood in the vestibule, greeting them as they dusted off their clothing before they entered the church proper. While not assigned, they always took the same seats. Each family took comfort in knowing their place in the world. When the sun perched exactly three hands high over the horizon, Father Daniel entered the nave, approached the altar, and bowed deeply. He looked up at the cross with the dog skeleton nailed to it. His face was passive, although he always felt a mix of emotions at the sight. Joy at being saved by his faith, fear of the Farmer, and (if he was honest), hunger and thirst—he still remembered, as a small boy, when they consumed that dog. Its flesh and blood had saved his family. He remembered feeling sated after. It had sacrificed itself for him and his people. He said a quick silent prayer of gratitude.

  He looked at the altar before him. The Grayson twins, Eli and Levi, were the altar boys for this service. They had already placed the elements for the mass on the altar, opened the Holy Bingo to the reading for the day, and stood ready, holding the candles.

  Father Daniel climbed the steps, moved around the altar, bent and kissed it, then kissed the book. Eli and Levi placed the candles in their holders and then Daniel led the congregation in another of his favorite hymns, “Rain of Ages.” Although it was hot and dusty in the nave, the three dozen people in the pews sang with feeling. Daniel felt certain Bingo watched over them with pride. “Rain of ages, fall on me. Let me hide myself in thee; let the water and the blood, from thy wounded side which flowed, be of sin the double cure; save from wrath and make me pure.”

  Daniel knelt down in prayer for several minutes to allow the congregation to sit and rest and recover from the hymn.

  He moved behind the altar. “Let us pray,” he intoned. The congregation rose and bowed their heads. He said a brief, silent votive to the Farmer and then began.

  Touching his forehead, then sternum, then each shoulder in turn, he proclaimed, “In the name of the Farmer, the Dog, and the Most Holy Name . . .”

  “Amen,” concluded the congregation.

  Holding his arms aloft he cried out, “There was a Farmer, had a Dog, and Bingo was his name.” The congregation lifted their arms as well. “B!” he shouted.

  “I! N! G! O!” they responded in turn, giving weight to each letter.

  “Holy Farmer, we pray to you, protect us, your children. We know that we are not worthy of your care, but you so loved the world that after the scorching you sent your only begotten dog that whosoever eats his flesh and drinks his blood shall not perish but shall live on.”

  “Amen,” the congregation intoned as one.

  “Be seated,” Father Daniel directed, waiting for the sound of the congregation getting comfortable in the pews to subside before launching into his sermon.

  “We live in dark times, my brothers and sisters,” he began, and smiled. “I see some of you look to the windows and I know what you think. Yes, we live in bright times, very bright times. While the sun is not as bad as the scorching times, we live too much in the light, and the light itself is what makes these times dark.”

  He paused and surveyed the congregation, ensuring all eyes were on him.

  “DESPAIR NOT!” he cried. Some congregants jumped, to his secret delight. “We live in the trying times, the times after the end times, the times after the scorching times.” Daniel noticed with satisfaction that several in the congregation nodded.

  “Does
it not say in the Holy Bingo, the book Farmer has given us to know His will, ‘They shall not hunger nor thirst; neither shall the heat nor sun smite them: for He that hath mercy on them shall lead them, even by the springs of water shall He guide them’? And yet, we must ask, ‘Where are your springs of water, Farmer? Are WE not worthy of your mercy? Are WE not worthy to be led to the springs of water?’” More nodding.

  “No, brethren. It is not that we are not worthy. For does Farmer not go on to say, ‘For I will pour water upon him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground: I will pour my spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine offspring.’ The waters are coming, my children. We shall not live in dry dust forever. We will be sent water by Farmer. But we must prove ourselves worthy of Him. I fear we are growing weak and losing faith in the face of the trials of life. Many of us have lost children and spouses; all of us have lost parents. We are the generation that must keep faith so that Farmer will pour his waters across the land again. The Field of Bakers was not always so.”

  Daniel opened the book on the lectern. He knew it by heart, but it always did him good to see the words as he read them—it reminded him of his faith in Farmer.

  “I take as my reading today from the New New Testament Book of Lucas.” He cleared his throat and read: “‘Businessman was the enemy of the Farmer. Businessman said he was a friend of the Farmer, but he is the father of lies and the prince of deceit. Businessman betrayed and handed over the Farmer, but the Farmer’s dog, Most Holy Bingo, attacked and killed Businessman. Businessman cannot truly die, however. We must always be vigilant, for Businessman takes on new incarnations to lead the people of the Farmer away from him.’ Amen. Friends, take these words to heart. We must beware the masks that hide the face of Businessman.”

  The doors of the nave burst open, startling the congregation. A figure wrapped in dusty canvas, his head covered in a helmet and goggles, stormed in, trailing sand and heat behind him. Removing his helmet, he proclaimed to the gathered community, “A stranger is coming up the Fiveroad!”