5 Years After

by Richard Correll

  “I heard something,” he said sleepily. “It was really loud.”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him. Then she pulled out the famous parent tactic: subject change. “What was that thing you learned in school today?”

  He fell for it. “What to do if you see one of the bad ones.”

  “The bad ones?”

  “You know.” He was still a little tired. “What some people become after they get hurt.”

  “Yes.” She shivered. Children can be as calm as bathwater about the most horrifying things and hysterical about the trivial occurrences, a defense mechanism perhaps?

  “What do you do?”

  “Run, run as fast as you can,” he rhymed, even clapping his hands. “Find an adult, that’s the plan.”

  “That’s very good.” She smiled, watching it produce a smile on his precious face. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He never would be again if she had anything to do with it. “I’ll tuck you in. Later, I’ll come and sleep in your room tonight.”

  “Okay.” He held out his fragile arms and was carried back into the safety of his room.

  “Survive,” Kate whispered later, pulling the throw blanket back to look at the neat hole in the back of Brad’s head. The blood flow from the body that covered the floor was beginning to slow a bit. Outside, she could hear weak hands scratching on the front door, desperate for a handhold to force their way inside.

  Kate hobbled over to the liquor cabinet and poured out a shot. She didn’t care what it was as long as it burned the back of her throat and stopped her hands from shaking. She dropped into the La-z-boy.

  “Survive,” she said it louder and for the first time Kate wondered if she would actually get away with it.

  LINEAGE (Just another day)

  The deed was done. The report had been delivered. As Charles Wellington walked through the almost maze like hallways of the Orangeville courthouse, his mind automatically went into review mode.

  He was always amused at how far he had to dumb things down sometimes. No wait, Wellington retracted the harshness of his judgment. These are politicians, he reminded himself benignly. Science, history and biology are not their strong points. They live in a world where influence is peddled and sold. A different kind of mathematics existed there. Yes, Wellington lowered his head and watched his loafers shuffle on the clean hexagons of the linoleum. That was a better and fairer way to see things.

  Charles Wellington at first had labored on how to bridge the gap between science and the political hive mind. It hit him one day while he was walking through a library at the University of Western Ontario. Everyone loves a good story, he realized back then. Do not submit a scientific paper to unscientific people. Tell them a story………

  He had not submitted antiseptic comments and facts from history. Instead, he told them about the days of the plague of Justinian in 542 AD, using the most descriptive of historical texts to create color and substance to his theory, Eyewitness accounts were carefully researched not for fact but for clarity,

  Those under the spell forgot all those that were familiar to them….those afflicted had a sleep walking delirium…..

  Even through the fog of centuries the similarity was striking. His story continued with a plague from the fifteenth century among Incans in South America. The stories from the ages spoke how the disease was spread by dead Spanish soldiers, no account referred to the bodies of the conquistadors. No, circulating the disease were dead Spanish soldiers. If the reader thought the thread of logic too thin, Wellington had followed the trail of Spanish Galleons returning to Europe from that afflicted area. A few made stops in Marseilles. Sixth months later, a plague was ravaging that city.

  What is worth mentioning is how the King of France responded to the outbreak. A wall was built around the city. Clearly, the idea of a containment line is not new…………

  Wellington had included a photograph of the wall. The black and white picture was mute testimony to his gathering trail through time. The hard part of the report was the careful balancing act of providing enough scientific information to satisfy the mildly curious and skeptical mind. But not letting the devil get into the details.

  The mapping of every cell of the human body was a marvelous achievement. It certainly has paid more than its’ fair share of dividends in our current crisis. He had indulged in some theoretical exploration. There is evidence to suggest that the re-animation trigger for our system is locked in a dormant state in our DNA. Wellington winced at the thought of others discovering this passage. It was not scientifically accepted yet. But the evidence toward it was tantalizing. Still, he was the one writing the report.

  No, I am telling a story. Wellington reminded himself as he made his way toward the southern entrance of the courthouse. It is unclear what causes this strand of DNA to become active and manifest itself in our system. Very much as it is unclear how a cancer virus suddenly becomes active in some patients while it lies dormant in others. There is evidence that some natural or environmental trigger is at work here. What is truly worth study is how this virus (if we can call it that) becomes active in all of us at once.

  He let himself feel the sunshine on his face while he imagined Spanish Galleons like floating morgues approaching ports of call, edged on by the gentle breeze of the trade winds. The wall in Marseille, it stood out from the rest of that time period by its quality. It had been placed haphazardly. Cement was overflowing on to the poorly cut stones. Craftsmanship had clearly been sacrificed at the alter of speed. It was like the laborers were working with one eye over their shoulder. Could they have been hurling themselves at their duties while forms appeared in the morning mist………?

  He heard her voice in an almost military cadence. His train of imagination was gone. Curious now, he began to slowly move toward the fire door at the northern end of the hallway.

  *

  Stop it!

  Stop it!

  Stop it!

  Maggie was curled up underneath a metal staircase at the court house. It had been just a few minutes since she had said her goodbyes to Tom Roberts. He had shaken her hand with an almost startled look in his eyes. It was like he could see foreboding in his future. Maggie’s train of thought had clearly gone in a direction he was unprepared for.

  Then it was Maggie’s turn to be unprepared. She bit her knuckle hard and tried to get control. First, start breathing right again, inhale, exhale. It only seemed to accentuate her shakes. The air filled her lungs but came out in ragged rhythm. It had all been so innocent, so perfectly normal. In the cramped coffee lounge at the courthouse, Maggie brushed up against a distracted bailiff. He hands had briefly touched her waist.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

  It was nothing, Maggie nodded to accept his apology and somewhere in an office a large book fell toward the floor. BAM! She was back there, the brief touch now felt like an army of snakes moving up her body. She had travelled back in time, maybe it was the smell of the man, maybe it was the noise, maybes and what-was-that’s were lost among a rising tide that seemed to start below her belt and overflow into her life. If anyone had cared to look closely enough, they’d see a new emotion in her eyes. She felt herself recoil from the room and spin back to fingers and hands and cold sweat in Chicago.

  She was out the door and heading for the stairway. Are they looking at you? I bet they are, they all see everything inside of you. You’re like one of those models in a doctors’ office where the skin is transparent plastic and everything is on display. They can see you. They know what you’re thinking. You are alone now, you are naked now. The coffee was discarded in a trash can as Maggie hit the exit door and ran down a flight of stairs.

  Somewhere, anywhere……….

  There was a moment of vertigo as she looked up at the painted grey bricks and staircase. Maggie had neatly tucked herself into that space on the ground floor below the stairs. It was a child like emotion with a touch on the animal side. You need to hide away and lick your wounds. An
echo cast itself back from the walls. Did you just scream out loud? Of course you did. Face it. You are not getting any better are you?

  Her knees were drawn up under her chin as Maggie’s arms wrapped around herself. A slow rocking motion began. She was just like a child now. A nursery rhyme began to play in the back of her memory. There was a sudden awareness as she raised her head and looked at him.

  *

  He looked down at her.

  There was wetness in her eyes that shared space with a desperate look. She drew a breath of air and saw him with a sudden, startled expression. Her mouth stayed firm as she sized up what was about to happen next.

  “Hello,” Professor Wellington spoke as gently as he could.

  “Hey.” She growled back. The woman was wearing a combat helmet and uniform that seemed a size too large. But then again, Wellington had never seen any of them fit properly. She was very small but had that coiled spring appearance. The slope from her neck to shoulders was muscular and pronounced. He briefly could make out her forearms that were exposed before rolled up sleeves. The sinews of muscle and blue veins cut a pattern on her skin like chain mail armor. Yes, a very powerful coiled spring.

  “I just needed a place to be alone,” The woman spoke as he sat down against the wall that was opposite from her hideaway. Wellington carefully tried to cross his legs yogi style and heard a tear.

  “Oh, damn. I seem to have torn my pants.”

  He looked up and saw tears running down her face while the hardened mouth started to open uncontrollably. It was an ugly giggle that stampeded into a laugh. The woman raised her left hand to her mouth, trying to stop the torrent but it was no use. She was hiccupping air between breaths as her shoulders heaved forward and back.

  “I’m sorry………but that’s just…funny…..” She tried to speak through an uncontrollable emotion that was a whiplash to a minute ago.

  “Embarrassing…….really,” He was looking for the tear with trepidation. The larger scene seemed to dawn on Wellington as he watched the change in the character of Maggie’s face. The upturned mouth and the retreat of the rage, the sparkle in her eyes, it was like watching the dead of winter give way to the hope of spring.

  Maggie exhaled quickly as her head angled downwards. She looked up for a second with a facial expression that was an equinox between how she felt and what was taking hold.

  “I don’t know who you are, but you just made my day.” She sniffed loudly.

  “Charles Wellington.” He nodded the way old men do. His voice was upper class but infinitely approachable.

  “Maggie.” She pointed at herself. “Did I wake the neighbor hood? Is that what brought you in here?”

  “I just wanted to see if you were alright.”

  “I am now.” Maggie began the process of getting to her feet. The professor did the same at a much more careful pace. His hands were carefully searching for a tell tale tear.

  “….not sure what I am to do now…..”

  “Are you okay?” Maggie decided to return the favor. Clearly, he was distressed.

  “Well, I can’t go out like this, can I?” He was careful not to display the spot where the fabric had come apart. She would have to take his word for it.

  “I guess not.” Maggie paused and tried to make conversation. “You have an appointment or something?”

  “I volunteered to help walk some children back home this afternoon.” The professor looked up from his self effacing search. “Just trying to do my part, you know.”

  “Good for you.” Maggie nodded with approval.

  “I can’t do it like this……….”

  Maggie was on her feet to the door, it swung open with a metallic complaint. Her head popped through the aperture.

  “Private!” She called out to no one in particular. There was always someone around who held that rank.

  “Yes ma’am!”

  “I need a pair of pants, pronto……”

  It was amazing what you find in a courthouse. There were at least five pairs of pants, bailiff uniforms stacked neatly away in a closet. The fit was far from perfect. But, Professor Wellington observed. Clothes just stopping fitting perfectly after you’ve reached a certain age. It was a quick lift in a delivery truck and they arrived at the school house.

  *

  It was the silence that struck Maggie at first. It was like an old movie on freeze frame. All that was missing were the blur of things caught in mid motion. The day was holding its breath. There was life here. But it was in recluse, hiding behind the windows of nearby homes, watching for the tell tale signs of danger. The Canadian flag still hung from where it had been raised this morning. But it was motionless in the air, like an animal awaiting the next move of its prey.

  The building was a typical school house from modern times. A one storey bunker of brick and concrete, modern emergencies had forced bars across the windows and other haphazard impediments from intruders. Leftover scrap iron and wood had been nailed or worked into place. It was like a crude sketch of a desperate defense.

  Maggie felt herself naturally travel back in time to Baltimore. The life, loudness and soprano screams of girls her age would echo through the neighborhood. The social walk home from class, whether it was a time of catching up, making plans or even childish revenge.

  It was all about life lived with little experience and a future that seemed limitless. As they began to arrive, there was movement here and a shadow that stirred behind the windows. The children of this age laughed less and watched more.

  Maggie checked her safety for the umpteenth time and nodded to a group of men standing in front of the school. They watched her and the new group approach with judgmental eyes, Maggie’s uniform gave her the right to return the stare.

  There was a tall man with wisps of grey hair underneath his ball cap. He wore aviator sunglasses. Whether it was to hide a hangover or enhance his bad ass attitude was open to argument. Although his head was not turned toward her completely, Maggie knew he was watching.

  She sighed and felt the bulge in her right breast pocket. It was a reminder of the walk with Tom Roberts just a couple of short hours ago. Why is it that seems like a million years had past? She left the thread of thought unexamined, shouldered her rifle and withdrew the manila envelope. It slipped open easily as her fingers gravitated to an object inside.

  As Maggie withdrew the sharpened piece of metal, she was aware of a familiar figure walking toward her. Again, it felt like time had flown by while the world had grinded on in slow strangulation. As usual, he saluted perfectly.

  “Hey Gurpreet,” Maggie looked up from the object between her thumb and forefinger. Her smile was natural, unforced.

  “Ma’am, always a pleasure,” There was a pause as his eyes naturally averted to the sun catching the medal in her hands. “If I may say so, that is the Silver Star.”

  “Silver Star?” Wellington had looked up and was curious.

  “For bravery and gallantry in combat,” Gurpreet was clearly aware that she was being appraised since arriving. He spoke in a much higher volume than was necessary for conversation.

  “Hmmmm……” Maggie was unsure how to react. She felt her back grow tense. Chicago, the piece of metal cruelly reminded. A piece of yellow stuck to the outside of the envelope, right where the address should be. It caught her eye. The scrawl on the sticky note was precise, very much like Tom Roberts:

  There is a hotel room in your name tonight at the Best Western. Tomorrow morning you will be fitted for a new uniform. Congratulations Captain Hunter.

  “I’m going to be a captain.” Maggie spoke uncontrollably. If she had cared, Maggie would have looked up and seen a gathering crowd. She dropped the metal reminder of days gone by into the envelope and slipped it back into her pocket. Maggie took a deep breath and looked up into a dozen different eyes. “So, what do we do? Who’s in charge?”

  “Looks like you are.” Someone from the back offered in a half whisper.

  “So how do we
do this, captain?” Aviator glasses spoke up. His words contained an edge of sarcasm.

  “I do what I always do,” Maggie looked at him and burrowed her eyes into the duel mirrors of his aviators. “I find out who has done this the most.”

  “Well?” Maggie kept a tone of professionalism and a hint of conversation. She looked around.

  “I’ve done this a few times.” A short man with an expanding waist spoke up. His face was round and mustached; the attempt at a beard was still in doubt. “My name is Anton. Anton Brisbois.”

  “Maggie Hunter,” They shook hands. “This is someone I have had the pleasure to serve with, Gurpreet Gupta.” It always seemed to be the thing to say, Brisbois and Gurpreet nodded to each other, a few others followed suit. The ice was breaking, professionally at least.

  “Professor Wellington,” Maggie nodded to him. He mimicked her greeting.

  “You might want this, professor.” Maggie reached for her side arm.

  “No, please.” Wiggins waved her away with an embarrassed smile. “I will only end up shooting myself.”

  “Then why are you here?” Aviator glasses challenged.

  “Because I have a good set of eyes and I want to help.” The professor met the challenge.

  “Good, Professor you are with me, I could use the conversation.” Maggie looked around slowly, “Mr. Brisbois, I could use a third up front.”

  “Sure,” He nodded.

  “Gurpreet, I need a good crew to bring up the rear, covering our backs.” Maggie felt much better to have him around. “Pick your team.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gurpreet acknowledged the order and pointed to a man in black jeans who nodded slowly. “Also, who is the woman with the children?”

  “That’s Mrs. Chen.” Black jeans offered. “She’s the teacher.”

  “Her as well,” Gurpreet pointed toward the school where they were waiting. “The children know her and will do what she says quickly if there is trouble.”

  “Good,” Maggie liked the sound of it as she continued to ask questions. There was little traffic at this time of day, so she proposed the children walk on the side of the road as opposed to the sidewalk. An extra few feet of space if something moved might prove to be the difference. The rest of them seemed to fall into line quickly.