Thy Kingdom Come (Navitas Post-Apocalyptic Series)

by Daniel Adorno

  I scoop the last pile of earth onto the mound I’ve created and step back to survey my handiwork. The hole is about three feet deep and wider than a basketball, which will be adequate for the sparkhound’s size. With my foot, I push the sack until it crumples into the small grave. I’m struck by the irony of giving this deformed monstrosity a proper burial. Maybe next time we can try cremation instead.

  In the distance, Mr. Gray’s distinctive whistle blows. Two long notes in quick succession signaling the coast is clear. Three quick notes are the signal for danger. I’ve never heard him give the danger whistle, but today would have been the day for it. I grab the shovel and drop the first clump of dirt into the hole, trying hard not to think of my parents.

  Three

  The Gray’s basement is cold and reeks of mildew. It’s dinner time and Mrs. Gray is serving up sauerkraut with sausage for everyone. I sit down at the small wooden table next to Zechariah and wait for her to serve me a plate. I spend most of my days down here with the rest of the family since Mr. Gray discourages anyone walking around upstairs for fear of being spotted by wandering Mindless. We only go up to use the bathrooms since there aren’t any in the basement.

  The basement suits our needs well enough. Several years back, the Grays reconstructed the space into an extra family room with two bedrooms and a fireplace. Mr. And Mrs. Gray have the bigger bedroom while Zechariah and I share the smaller one. We use the fireplace for cooking and keeping warm throughout the harsh Minnesota winter. An unfinished crawlspace in one corner of the basement serves as Mrs. Gray’s pantry, where she keeps canned food and boxes of leftover MREs from Mr. Gray’s Marine Corps days. He doesn’t talk about it much, but Mr. Gray was a Marine colonel before he met Jessica Gray, a surgeon, in a local food drive in Minneapolis. My father met Malcolm Gray when he was a deacon at our church. They became friends when my parents found out how close he lived to our house. Before IlluMonday, I thought of Mr. Gray as a peaceful yet stoic man, but in the past year I’ve seen the hardened Marine emerge.

  “Pass the chips, Dex,” Mr. Gray says, gesturing at the expired bag of potato ruffles on the table.

  I hand them to him while Mrs. Gray places a plate of food in front of me. “Thank you, Mrs. Gray,” I say, savoring the aroma of the hot sausage.

  “I wish you would just call me Jessica, Dex. ‘Mrs.’ is too formal and it makes me feel old,” she says.

  I shrug at her comment. My parents taught me to always address elders by their title and last name. It’s silly to most people, but respect was important to my family. Beside, I grew up calling them by their titles, so I can’t imagine addressing Mr. and Mrs. Gray by their first names—it’s too weird.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being formal, Jess,” Mr. Gray says before taking a bite of sauerkraut.

  “Yes, sir,” Mrs. Gray responds giving a mock salute. Mr. Gray raises a brow as she giggles to herself.

  I try not to chuckle as I cram a fork full of sausage and sauerkraut into my mouth. The spicy meat and pickled cabbage make for a delicious meal that I inhale under ten minutes. Mrs. Gray rarely cooks dinners like this. The typical dinner is some variation of canned pasta or a starchy MRE, which make my stomach churn. Meat is rare at our table unless Mr. Gray goes hunting. Sometimes he comes back with squirrel for dinner, which doesn’t taste as bad as it sounds. But when Mrs. Gray found a few unopened packages of summer sausage in the back of the pantry yesterday, we were all ecstatic. The next few nights’ dinners will be delicious feasts compared to the last few months.

  I glance at Zechariah and notice he’s still picking at his food with a fork, uninterested in eating. Ever since Mr. Gray refused to let him help me bury the sparkhound he’s been in a crabby mood.

  “Zechariah, are you not hungry?” Mrs. Gray asks, sitting across from her son. She’s a pale woman with rosy cheeks and fiery red hair she pulls back into a ponytail for convenience. The familiar bump of an Illumen implant mars her temple—a requirement for anyone in a medical profession. I watch the sparkle of her blue eyes fade as she squints with disapproval at her son. “What’s the matter?” She asks.

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” Zechariah replies, looking bored at his plate.

  “Zechariah, your mother made an excellent meal. We can’t afford to let it go to waste—”

  “I don’t care!” Zechariah pushes away from the table and runs to our room, shutting the door behind him before Mr. Gray can get another word out.

  “What was that about?” Mrs. Gray asks.

  “That boy doesn’t know how to listen. If he’d listen more, he’d be upset a lot less,” Mr. Gray replies.

  I sense an argument coming on and I don’t want to sit around for it. Mr. and Mrs Gray argue more than my parents ever did. It’s not the type of arguing that makes me worried they’ll get a divorce or something extreme, it’s just uncomfortable.

  “Did you say something to him? Was it because he went outside this morning?”

  “You know how I feel about him going outside, Jessica. Why did you let him?”

  I slide my chair away from the table and try to leave the discussion unnoticed, but it’s useless when Mrs. Gray turns her head in my direction.

  “Dex, you don’t have to leave, we’re simply talking.”

  “Oh, I was going to wash my hands,” I lie.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Jess. Why did you let him out?” Mr. Gray sets his fork aside and leans back in his chair, waiting for her to answer.

  “Malcolm, I was in the pantry. I didn’t see him go out.”

  “You didn’t hear the gunshot outside?” Mr. Gray says, furrowing his brow.

  “I thought you were hunting again,” Mrs. Gray replies with a shrug. Her lips squeeze firmly together before she speaks again. “I will not keep Zechariah prisoner just because you’re afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of course, I’m afraid! My wife and son are both vulnerable to a virus that’s wiped out half the world, why shouldn’t I be afraid?”

  I walk away from the table to the laundry room before Mrs. Gray responds. I’ve listened to this argument multiple times in the last few months and I don’t want to hear it again. Inside the cramped laundry room, I turn on the sink to wash my hands and unwillingly listen to them.

  “Malcolm, there have been no Mindless around here for a year, they’ve moved on—”

  “But the sparkhounds are out there, Jess! I killed one today, remember? They can transmit that Navitas crap too. If he was out there a minute before I shot that thing, he’d be dead.”

  I listen to them go back and forth about Zechariah. He’s probably listening to them from inside our bedroom, the walls are thin. He hates it when they talk about him as if he’s not there. I can understand that. My parents always argued over my love of ninjas or samurai culture. My father thought it was unhealthy for me to be into movies or books about samurais and ninjas. He believed it would lead me astray and argued with my mother about it often. She tried to defend me by saying it was a harmless interest, but my dad was convinced that samurais and ninjas glorified violence. They created a barrier between me and Christ. Both of them debated over it and since their bedroom shared a wall with mine, I overheard the everything. My father’s legalistic tendencies made me resent him. I hated that he’d complain to my mother about what I liked, but never confronted me about it. But now, as I listen to Mr. and Mrs. Gray debate, I miss my parents arguing. Even though it caused me so much grief, they always worked things out and talked it over with me. Zechariah doesn’t know how good he’s got it.

  When there’s a lull in the arguing, I walk out of the laundry room and glance at the table. Mr. and Mrs. Gray are sitting close to each other, talking in hushed voices. I tiptoe to my bedroom and step inside, closing the door behind me. It’s dark inside except for the light coming from a small candle on the dresser next to my bed. Two twin beds sit across from each other against either wall and Zechariah is lying down, turned toward the wall. Hushed sniffles come out of him, so I refrai
n from saying anything and sit down on my bed.

  “What do you want?” Zechariah asks, still facing the wall.

  “Nothing. I wanted to see how you were doing,” I say.

  “What do you think?”

  He sits up and turns to face me. In the soft light, I can see his cheeks are damp and his eyes glassy. He wipes his face on his sleeve then stares at the candlelight for a while. I keep quiet, letting him focus on the slow flicker of the fire.

  “Is it wrong to hate your parents?” Zechariah asks.

  I’m surprised by the question. It makes me think of those times my Dad would complain to my mother and how I hated him for it. It was wrong to think that way, but emotions have a way of dominating what’s right.

  “Yes, hating them is wrong. We’re supposed to honor them according to the Ten Commandments. You know that.”

  He frowns and nods. “I know. I’m just tired of dealing with them.”

  “My parents used to make me angry too. I hated when my Dad would pester my mom about all the samurai and ninja stuff,” I say.

  “Oh yeah, I remember that,” Zechariah says, smiling. “Your dad was pretty strict. I remember he would always make us turn off the holo streams and my implant at 8 o’clock.”

  “Yeah,” I say, glancing at the candle. “I miss that.”

  “Sorry, Dex. I know you don’t like to talk about them, but—”

  “But what?” I ask.

  “Well, you never talk about what happened. You said they were killed by the Mindless, but you never told us everything. My Dad and Mom never pushed you to say anything, but don’t you think its time to talk about it?”

  My heartbeat rises and the memories of IlluMonday hit me. The mob of Mindless. My father getting out of the car. My mother bleeding out in the passenger’s seat. “I don’t want to—”

  “That’s a bad excuse, Dex.” Zechariah interrupts. “You want to tell someone, I can tell. Some nights you say their names in your sleep.”

  I stand up from the bed and head to the door almost involuntarily, but Zechariah blocks my path.

  “Get out of my way, Zechariah.” I say, feeling a sting in my eyes.

  “Not until you tell me what happened,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his pudgy frame. “You can’t hold it in forever.”

  I fight every urge to push him out of my way or slug him in the face. He’s right, of course. I need to talk to someone about that day, but I can’t do it now. “It’s my choice when I want to talk. You can’t make me, just like I can’t make you stop being so defiant.”

  Zechariah’s eyes widen at the barb and I almost wonder if he’s going to push me, but he doesn’t. He bites his lower lip and shuffles back to his bed. I tug the door open and walk out into the family room. Mr. and Mrs. Gray are no longer at the table. It’s a quarter past nine according to the grandfather clock on the wall and their bedroom door is ajar. It’s usually shut when they go to sleep, so they might be reading in bed.

  I sit down on a worn leather chair beside the unlit fireplace and try to clear my head, but Zechariah’s words cloud my thoughts. I hate how he’s right about how I’m doing. Who is he to tell me what I need to say about my parents? He doesn’t even listen to his parents and hates them! Complete hypocrite. I exhale and sink into my chair, wishing I had stayed in the laundry room instead of trying to console Zechariah.

  While I stare into the black soot lining the inside of the fireplace, my mind drifts to Cassidy. I wish we could talk right now and I could tell her about everything that’s going on here. The dead sparkhound, all the Gray family drama, and my parents. She knows the Mindless killed them, but she’s never pressed me about it like Zechariah. She’s the only person close to me who understands the trauma of witnessing the violent death of a parent. I need to talk to someone, but no one in this house will do.

  The last four times I’ve used my CB radio, there was nothing but static on the other end. Mr. Gray caught me using the radio last time and almost had a heart attack about it. He hid the batteries and the radio in separate places. But Zechariah told me his father hides forbidden items—in the closet of the master bedroom upstairs. A week ago, I also spotted the antenna of the CB handset poking out from a basket of rags shoved under the sink. I wanted to grab the radio then, but my parent’s instruction to obey my elders kept me from doing it. Their disapproval is ignored as I walk inside the laundry room. The basket of rags is in the same spot and I dig through it to find the radio, tucking it in my belt.

  Before climbing up the basement stairs, I listen for Mr. and Mrs. Gray or Zechariah. Zechariah’s door is shut, but his parents’ door is still ajar. Part of me wants to wait until they’re asleep to go upstairs, but I’m too impatient for that. I ascend to the first floor of the house and open the door leading into the dark kitchen. I crouch low to avoid being seen through the windows even though the blinds are all down. Whenever we use the bathroom upstairs, Mr. Gray told us to tell someone downstairs. He’s worried a Mindless might get inside and kill one of us while we’re on the toilet or something. Whatever his reasoning, I hate the bathroom policy and seldom tell anyone when I come up here.

  The hardwood floors are creaky in certain spots, so keep my steps light and walk slow. The master bedroom is on the opposite side of the kitchen beyond the living room. Storage boxes and gardening equipment litter the living room. When the Grays moved down to the basement they had to make room, so they brought all of their stuff upstairs. It’s a challenge to wade through the junk and keep myself from knocking anything over in the dark. I tiptoe around a pair of rakes and a hoe, hating that Mr. Gray didn’t listen to his wife and store everything in the shed outside.

  When I clear the living room, I step up to the bedroom door and turn the knob carefully. I’m surprised to find that a window shade inside is pulled up, letting the pale glow of the moon outside shine into the room. For a moment, I stand in the doorway and stare at the full moon. I can’t remember the last time I saw it and I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. My eyes adjust to the soft light and I glance around the room. It’s impeccably neat compared to the living room. The bed is made and the shelves along the walls are stocked with books, and the floor is free of any clutter. It’s almost like a museum exhibit where they recreate a famous person’s room that never looks lived in.

  I make my way into the large closet and inspect everything in the dim light. There’s a long rack of clothes along one wall and stacks of boxes beneath it. Zechariah told me Mr. Gray keeps his forbidden items and valuables in a shoe box with camouflage printed on it. I examine each box, but find none with a camo design. Mr. Gray must have moved it, so I search the shelves above the clothing rack.

  Nothing.

  I can feel my cheeks getting hot and I want to kick the stacked boxes at my feet. But the Grays will hear that, so I sink to the ground instead. With my back leaning on the wall, I let out a deep exhale and accept defeat. I pray that God would take away the loneliness permeating my life right now, but I now it’s useless. The last time I earnestly prayed about something, my mother died. I asked God to save her. Mrs. Gray tried to resuscitate her, but she lost too much blood from all the glass shards embedded in her neck and arms. One of those shards pierced her jugular and she could barely speak to me before taking in her final breath. She said, “Dex...be safe.”

  Warm tears pool in my eyes and I wipe them with the back of my hand. My mother always worried about my well-being and told me to “be safe” whenever I went out the door. Those words were uttered more than “I love you” in my household. She did love me, I don’t have any doubt. My father did too, I think. He’s just a tougher nut to crack than my mother.

  I rise from the floor and walk to the door. The moonlight in the bedroom is stark compared to the dark closet and as I walk out, something beneath the bed catches my eye. Camouflage. I crawl onto the floor to snatch the box and rummage through the contents. With batteries in hand, I tuck the box under the bed and pull out the CB radio. My first attemp
t at communicating with Cassidy results in nothing more than dead air. I switch to our channel and try once more.

  “Burger Maid, do you copy?” I say into the handset. Cassidy used to work as a hostess at Capitol Burger in Saint Paul and the CB moniker seemed appropriate. “Burger Maid, are you available, over?”

  No reply. I hope she’s still safe and alive. One month without talking to her makes me anxious. Cassidy lives in Highland Park, a suburb south of Forest Lake and much too close to downtown St. Paul for my liking. Urban areas are susceptible to Mindless attacks because of the higher population and larger sources of electricity. I pray that she’s still alive. Please God let her still be alive.

  “Finny Boy, long time no chatter. You copy?” Cassidy’s silvery voice crackles through the radio.

  “Cassidy?! Thank goodness you’re alive,” I reply.