5 Years After

by Richard Correll

  “No worries,” she said, confidently meeting his eyes. “We have to stick together. It’s been so lonely.”

  “Where do you live?” He wanted to get closer, keep the conversation going. It was intoxicating.

  “Here.” She walked to the edge of the building out on Times Square. Keeping a safe distance from the edge, she beckoned him to follow. “I’ll show you.”

  His curiosity was piqued that someone could have been in his neighborhood for so long without his awareness. How had she done it? He had so many questions and thought he could provide so many answers as well, someone to have on your side, someone to have your back. He had to take her with him.

  “See?” She pointed at a tenement a mile away. “I have a tent on the roof.”

  “A tent?” Dylan squinted hard to see in the distance. The fog made it difficult.

  “Yeah,” She smiled obviously very proud of her own personal plan. “I just pack up and move around from borough to borough.”

  “Have you had trouble finding food?” he asked absently. The fog was clearing and he thought he saw the outline of a tent on the building.

  “Oh, there’s plenty of food around,” she said through her teeth as her knife slid into his ribs with one powerful thrust.

  When Rebecca undressed him she was disappointed at how skinny he was. She slipped into his apartment and found enough wood to start a fire. She figured there was enough of him for a few days at least. As she cut and carved up his body, the stars peeked out from the clouds and watched the careful dismemberment and cleaning.

  Later, Rebecca absently looked at the stars and wondered if he knew how long she had been hunting him.

  MANIFESTO

  The sun had yet to rise. Far in the east there was the glow of a billion fireflies on the horizon. Soon the day would begin. Molly hated rushing in the morning. Instead, she set the alarm super-early and approached the day on her own terms. The coffee maker had just finished brewing as she padded into the dark kitchen. She poured two cups of French vanilla flavored coffee into a pair of large mugs and hurried back to bed.

  Molly Hunter slid into the cotton sheets and let the warm blankets caress her bare legs for a few more luxurious minutes while she sat up in bed and slowly started the day. The rules were simple. The first cup was enjoyed in silence while she reviewed her day. Like a general planning a battle. She considered key conversations coming up and how to approach them. She glanced at the notes she had made before going to bed. She began drawing firm lines through discarded ideas and check marks beside the late night inspirations.

  The first cup was always done too fast, she sighed, and started drinking the second cup while preparing a high-energy breakfast of bananas, apples, mangos and grapefruit in the kitchen. All were expensive but necessary to keep the camera loving her figure. Satisfied with the fruit plate, she brought it back to bed and clicked the radio on to catch up on what had happened in the world while she was sleeping.

  The news stinger signaled the top of the hour and the newscaster on CNN radio launched into the top stories. “This morning China is accusing Russia of further border encroachments. Russia has replied that its troops were fired on before crossing the border and merely crossed to defend themselves. Chinese officials deny this, saying they were only warning shots.”

  She listened with detached interest to a reporter from New Delhi updating Amnesty International’s investigation into the alleged Bangladesh genocide. Indian officials had refused to meet with the international team and categorically denied that refugees had been prevented from crossing into India and safety. An Amnesty spokesperson also stated they had evidence from survivors but were unable to cross into Bangladesh as it appeared to have been totally over run by the dead.

  “The entire country?” An incredulous reporter asked.

  “Yes,” the tired Amnesty spokesperson replied. “It looks like the entire country is gone.”

  Molly thought it strange how media life changes you. You have just heard that an entire country and its people have just disappeared. You have no sense of horror, no feeling of loss. Just the analytical, logical thought process of how you might approach the story. Interview an Indian general on how he plans to deal with his borders should the dead from Bangladesh go south. Talk to townspeople on the border, ask them what they saw. Get a fly-over of Bangladesh from Gauhati. The visuals might be stunning. She comforted herself by saying this was how a doctor approached patients with a serious illness. Media is about keeping your humanity locked away in a recess of your soul while hands pleaded for help while you continued to take pictures.

  Before leaving international news, the correspondent reported that despite London’s evacuation three years before, frontline observers around the city still maintained Big Ben was keeping perfect time and chiming on the hour. A story of hope to finish things off, nice. She nodded, taking another sip.

  The spotlight moved to Ottawa and the heavy fighting around their Parliament buildings. The small salient crew that remained in Ottawa had just been cut in two while the Parliament buildings were surrounded on three sides. She admired Canadian tenacity but felt there was a fine line between stubborn defense and suicide. Her sources around the Pentagon had told her they should have evacuated weeks ago. She briefly thought of Maggie and was thankful she was nowhere near Ottawa.

  When Maggie had first arrived in Toronto she had schooled her sister on the local pronunciation of the city via a long distance phone call:

  Molly: So, what’s Toronto like?

  Maggie: (laughs) Only Americans say Tor-on-to.

  Molly: Okay, how do Canucks say it?

  Maggie: Kind of like Trawnto

  Molly: Trawnto?

  Maggie: Yup, now you got it, eh?

  Molly smiled uncontrollably. The news got closer to home. Shootings from a street gang and militia had left four dead. On Capitol Hill, the War Measures Act was up for renewal with opinions from dozens of groups offering thousands of different angles. The policy of a fifty-hour work week, no strikes and wage freezes was looking to pass easily.

  The day promised to be a cool one with a possible pop-up thunderstorm in the afternoon. The Dow-Jones in Hartford had been slowly recovering as of late. Thanks to newfound investor confidence it had cracked the 3300 mark. The NASDAQ was showing some life at 413 as well. No surprise, gas was up again. This time, twenty-two cents more at the pump brought a gallon of regular to $14.21.

  Molly finished off a last slice of mango and jumped into the shower. She closed the shower door behind her and lost herself in the steam and warm water that signaled the day had begun. Drying herself off, she put a towel around her hair and headed out to find something to wear. Grey slacks with a matching jacket from Hugo Boss and a red blouse from Michael Kors was her favorite these days. The heals? She was in the mood for Zanotti. Yeah, that would do.

  A quick glance at the clock told her she had time to dry her hair. If there was one thing about her black skin that was a nuisance it was the accompanying hair. Thick and coarse, it took an eternity to dry. At least once a week she would throw on a hoodie and wear dark glasses on her drive to the studio. Let the makeup people take care of it. She took her time. It wasn’t a day in front of the camera so there would be no makeup people. It was a research and meeting day. Story ideas and angles filled her head as she applied mascara.

  Dressed and ready, she grabbed her Louis Vuitton purse and stopped at the front door. She turned to her right and hit the TALK button on her condo intercom.

  “Hi, it’s Molly in 1010.” She announced. “Is it safe in the lobby?”

  “Just fine, ma’am,” the voice replied. “It’s all clear.”

  The morning protocol was recommended by condo security. No one wanted a surprise when their elevator opened on the main floor. Although Washington had held during the original onslaught, people still died. Sometimes they passed away alone. It struck Molly as a truly sad way to move on from your life but a reality nonetheless. After a few hours,
the deceased would return. They would move about the streets, searching the city to feed an unquenchable hunger. It was not wholly rare to see one every couple of months. It was best to be safe, safe and prepared.

  The elevator glided down to the main lobby. Molly’s condo was just off of US-1 near the convention center. It was a fashionable neighborhood of condominiums and shops. The capitol’s layout, some argued, had helped in its successful defense. The wide roadways allowed for clear fields of fire. Emergency units and troops were able to easily get where they were needed. Having the Potomac running through it allowed for river transport as well.

  There was always that moment of anxiety just before the elevator doors glided open to reveal a lobby of white walls and pristine floors with three security and valets as well. They turned to face Molly as her high heels click-clacked on the floor.

  “Morning, Miss Hunter.” A black man of fiftyish with a kind smile but alert, professional eyes greeted her. “May I walk you to your car?”

  “Yes please, Harry.” He rose and unbuttoned his holster as they walked through the front door. It was a quick walk to the underground parking lot. Harry always knew Molly was a fast mover. It was against the regulations for any security to carry the bags of patrons. It was not their purpose. A walk outside was still a walk outside. Venturing into an underground garage was also still the same. Provided you took precautions. But women have always done that, Molly remembered.

  “Have we ever seen any of them down here?” Molly asked, just to make conversation.

  “About four months ago,” Harry replied, his eyes probing their surroundings. “Saw two of them. Nobody was hurt. Sure scared some people, though.”

  Ten feet away she pulled out her fob. The familiar tweet-tweet was followed by the locks un-clicking. As Harry stood back, she walked over to her car to open the door and get her day into high gear. A drive up US-1 and across the Potomac to the Pentagon for a session with US military on…

  Something cold touched her foot and shoe.

  She looked down and froze as her eyes widened. A cold hand had slithered out from under the car beside hers and was stretching to touch her foot. She heard Harry swear and strong hands suddenly pulled her away to safety. Harry then drew his gun and stood in front of Molly. Now they were at a safe distance, he waited for the thing to make the next move. It looked like an old man. He pulled himself forward on his hands. As he came out from under the car, it became clear he had no body below his torso. His white hair and stubble were in uneven clumps around his face, the nostrils flared wildly. The eyes were enraged.

  “Front desk, this is Harry.” He was fighting for his voice to be calm. Under the circumstances, he was doing fine. “We’ve got one down here.”

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “Yeah, it touched Miss Hunter.” He glanced back at her, she nodded. “But, she’s fine. No cuts or anything.”

  “Okay,” the voice on the radio said. “I’ll alert disposal, you dispatch it.”

  “Right,” Harry put the radio down as the thing continued to crawl forward. Molly noticed he was wearing an old army issue military coat. He looked homeless. Maybe he had been dead for a year or two. “You want to look away, ma’am?”

  “I’ve seen this before, Harry.” Her voice was emotionless. He nodded, aimed and fired. The bullet struck the spot where the skull meets the temple and smacked into the frontal lobe of the brain. The head dropped hard onto the pavement floor and fluid spewed from the wound, a quickly spreading pool of the end of a life.

  They both stepped around the dead thing and Harry listened carefully for anything out of the ordinary before opening her car door. She stepped in and looked up to him while starting her car.

  “I am really sorry about that, ma’am.” He shook his head.

  “Harry, it’s just life these days,” She managed a brave smile. “You did great, thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Just happy you’re safe.” He tipped his cap. “Please be careful.”

  “I will be now.” She gave him one last smile before backing up and driving out of the garage. The sunlight surprised her eyes as she entered morning rush hour. A few cars here and there, more bikes than ever as many chose the cheaper and healthier mode of transportation. Molly could feel a cold, icy patch where it had touched her. Twice at red lights she checked the spot. But it was still there, a lingering sense of shock on her skin.

  Molly was more than surprised at her reaction. It was a sense of fear but not of horror. The moment had passed and she was already on to the next thing on her agenda. It was a feeling worth examining. The last time she had seen the dead was on a story shoot on the Cleveland containment line. Now, one was in her own garage. Aren’t you afraid? She asked herself.

  I’m afraid all the time, she answered her own question. Maybe I’m so used to fear I don’t even feel it anymore.

  She pulled into the Pentagon in an almost sleep walk. She’d been here so many times before. The checks, the ID requests, the phone calls to superiors, even the military vehicles lined up at the Taco Bell drive thru seemed every day. Before she knew it, Molly’s Zanotti heals were click clacking down the hallways of the Pentagon.

  It was more cavernous these days, but still a hub of activity for the American military machine. But, it was protecting a country that had gone from 370 million to 155 million in a short five years. The armed forces had more troops and less brass. A leaner fighting machine, they liked to say. A more desperate fighting machine, no one dared to say. She found General McCarthy’s office and walked into the spartan waiting area. A male civilian recognized her and tried to stay professional. She patiently smiled and sat down while he informed the general she had arrived.

  “Hey, girl,” The door to his office opened and his head popped out. He had a graying crew cut and a big Texas grin but his face was thinner than she remembered. “Can a cowboy buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “You bet.” She smiled and walked into his office. She found the first chair in front of his desk. A high-backed variety that was comfortable but simple. Very much like his office. There were a few ornaments and decorations. A Dallas Cowboys football helmet on a desk that was not oversized. Give that stuff to someone else, he would say. This is all I need. He meant it, too.

  As he passed by she leaned forward and touched his hand and asked, “So?”

  “Yeah,” He forgot about the desk and found a chair beside her. “It’s back, Molly. The cancer’s back.”

  “Oh, John…” Her hand covered her mouth. She wanted to say a thousand different things but they were all trapped in her throat.

  “I’m okay.” He smiled bravely. “I beat it once, I’ll beat it again.”

  “I’m so sorry…”

  “It’s okay, really.” He smiled sadly. “I’m at peace with this.”

  “Really?” She tried to search his soul for a minute.

  “Really,” He smiled and changed the subject. “Thanks for letting us know about contacting General Beauregard.”

  “No problem.” She followed his lead. “He said yes, he wants to be on Sixty Minutes.”

  “Atta girl,” His eyes narrowed for a minute but the smile remained. “Were there any stipulations?”

  “No crew, just me. I have to meet him halfway.” She leaned back in the chair. “My network will be contacting you about me hitching a ride.”

  “I’ll arrange it.” A sly horse-dealing smile came across his face. “You gotta do something for us, pretty lady.”

  “Name it.”

  “You see or hear anything that we need to know about you let us know, okay?” He looked at her seriously for a moment.

  “You got it.” She agreed with a wave of her hand. “Does this make me a spy for the US Army?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first in your profession to do it.” He winked at her, “We’ll get you an ultra-secure Blackberry to carry with you.”

  “He’s going to suspect this, isn’t he?” She asked.

&n
bsp; “Oh hell yeah,” He dismissed the idea with a shrug. “He knows the deal. Everything he says to you gets back to us.”

  “You’re telling me he’s cool with that?”

  “He can’t do anything about it,” he explained. “If he wants to get on Sixty Minutes, this is the price he has to pay.”

  “So,” she reached into her Louis Vuitton and produced a gold pen and a notebook the size of a pack of cigarettes. “Tell me everything about General Beauregard.”

  “Molly.” His head cocked to one side, trying to remember as much as he could that was top of mind. “You must know a lot about him, yourself.”

  “I do.” She nodded. “Just want to be on the same page with you.”

  “Beauregard came to our attention while his unit, the First Armored were fighting in Philadelphia.” McCarthy launched into narrative. “An explosion or event occurred that killed the entire command staff of the division.”

  “Convenient,” she muttered without looking up

  “Captain Beauregard suddenly became General Beauregard,” he continued. “His unit retreated from Philadelphia when we started pulling out of the cities and hit the road. Along the way they picked up a ton of stragglers from other units. They wound up west of the Allegany Mountains in West Virginia.”

  “Keep going…” A question popped into her head. Something that was obtuse to the facts she knew. But, she would wait until the end before asking.

  “He promptly proclaimed that area to be the Republic of West Virginia.” McCarthy almost said the title of the nation sarcastically but stopped himself. “He then began issuing orders as the first President of the new government. Although he has had some desertions, there have been far fewer than we expected.”

  “Speaking of troops, I have always heard Beauregard commands about fourteen-thousand militia and irregulars in West Virginia.”

  “Molly, the military is totally bullshitting you when we say that.” He said it like he was discussing the weather, calm and matter of fact. “Truth is, we think he has sixty three thousand or more crack troops.”