She’s laughing at me, oh my fucking god, she’s laughing at me…….….
Maggie barely felt herself touch the trigger. Her finger was as stone cold in shock as she was. Perhaps it was why she held it in place for so long. The C7A2 accepted the order to keep firing, the first point of contact was Kate’s stomach, a massive plume of red ejected near her lower back. The second appeared just below her shoulder blade. It struck with such force her arms flew above her head like she was about to take flight. Shards of skull spun away and landed in the brown, lifeless grass. Across the street, a rusty vehicle rocked gently as several more shells danced across the body and shattered a brake light. The battery had enough charge to cry out in surprise. The shrill, banshee scream held a curiosity at best for Maggie. She suddenly became aware that her finger was still pressing the trigger. The clip had been empty for a few seconds now.
She looked over to Anton. He met her eyes in what was mounting disbelief. Maggie could only scream in warning. It was an animal cry of alarm and surprise. The car had company.
The door was wide open now, He was very small with a tuft of brown had tousled about on his head like he had been through a storm. The hands were rising to touch Anton’s out stretched arm. There was intensity in his eyes. Pale yellow fire sparked, to be so close to the thing that promised to quell the burning in his insides. He had his mother’s mouth, oh, did he have his mother’s mouth.
The world became louder with a series of staccato punctuations that filled the air with cordite. The small figure slammed hard against the door and a few errant shells shattered a small security window in the door. A crimson stain spattered against the door frame and stone porch. Instantly, lines of red began to follow gravity down to the floor in a furious race. Anton found his feet, arms and automatically pulled away. He stared for another second before cold fear turned into something else. He turned away and threw up on the driveway.
In any other world he would have been cute standing at the front door in pajamas, one hand still was trying to play out the last command his nervous system had received. The other hand was holding up his form, gripping the doorway. He had been decapitated. The skull had been violently splashed away, it shattered like porcelain. The neck had rolled down like a tent being packed up. The muscles of his throat bobbed up and down in confusion. But, they were on full display. Strangely, he still stood in the doorway about to make that next step toward his prey. He staggered and Anton wretched in terror. The muscles were searching for the next order to be given. But there was none, transmission ends. The knees had no more reason to stand so they slowly buckled to the porch. The fingers hung on the door handle for longer than seemed possible. They eventually surrendered to the limitless gathering of the end. By the time his body landed on the driveway, Liam was already rushing toward darkness. He knew his mother would be there soon enough.
There was clumsiness to Maggie’s movements as she walked slowly around Kate’s body. She was sprawled on the grass like a creeper plant with appendages stretching out at crazy angles. Blood was spattered about in globs that seemed to glisten in the sunshine. Maggie kept a healthy distance from it all.
“Gurpreet,” Maggie choked out his name. He was still standing in firing position, his eyes were hypnotic. The rifle slowly lowered, a faint shaking of the barrel was visible in the air.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” he turned to Maggie and uttered the word in a whisper. My God, Maggie watched his face. His skin was drawn tightly around his skull. It was like looking at a bed sheet silhouetted over a doorway, in the shadows Maggie swore she could see the horror in his soul.
“Anton,” Maggie found her voice as she watched him sit up on his knees and wipe his mouth with his shirt sleeve. For a second she paused and then gave an order. “Don’t look at it.”
Anton didn’t acknowledge Maggie. He just continued to watch rivers of fluid from Liam run slowly down the driveway. Maggie knew he was thinking about play dates with his kids, sleepovers and all things that felt like the life of someone else.
“Anton.” Maggie had finally made her way over to him. She reached down and pushed his face away from the carnage. “Stop looking at it.”
“I can’t!” He finally stood up and pushed her hand away. “You didn’t know him!”
“He‘s not just another one of them.” Anton’s voice continued, it soared in volume, anger and even commemoration. “……and Kate……….Kate………and Liam.”
“I can’t stop looking,” He screamed at her as if she was the reason for all of this and more. “They’re my neighbors, damn it! My neighbors, I know these people………”
“Liam……….” Anton’s voice trailed in and out. “I’m sorry……….”
“They’re better off now……” Maggie tried to begin.
“HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW?” He screamed helplessly. There was a pause as his words echoed in the air.
“TELL ME!” He demanded, his cheeks were blood red now, he sniffed and a hand ran across his face to clear his eyes of the tears. His voice became a plea; “Tell me, how do you know….?”
“How do you know they’re better off now?” He shook his head slowly. His mouth was crumpled with the weight of emotion. “How do you know they’re better off?”
“You’re right. “ Maggie admitted, her voice worked on being calm. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know that.” He cried out in a voice of exasperation and defeat. There was no honor in life, no meaning to death. He shook his head slowly as tears tracked down his face. “You don’t know that.”
Maggie turned away, embarrassed at her lack of answers. She looked at Gurpreet for a minute and her heart sank even further. His mouth was drawn up stiffly as his eyes softly considered Liam’s figure. Maggie knew his memories were of his own children. Playing with them, singing songs and holding them. How much longer before you just give up?
“We have to get back,” Maggie ordered but still couldn’t look at them. “They’ll be waiting for us.”
“Yeah,” Liam’s head rolled to one side, his eyes were reddened around the edges, like an illuminating sky before a crimson dawn. He straightened up and dried his tears, shouldered his rifle.
“It’s just another day.” He finally said out loud.
“Just another day,” Maggie repeated in a lifeless whisper.
*
The three figures almost seemed illusionary as they approached. The professor stood amongst the children as they watched them come closer. They had all heard the gunshots. It was strange to watch their young faces as they heard the staccato sounds behind them. Wellington thought the faces of the children were like cold morning fog. They were almost colorless, expressionless. There was no fear, they were not startled. The professor had to pause for a minute before it dawned on him. Acceptance, they had grown up like this.
A random thought flicked through his day and bridged everything together. It was a sad, melancholy bit of logic as he focused on Maggie, Anton and Gurpreet. He was taken back in time many years ago when he studied firsthand the theories of Charles Darwin. He was amid the living landscape of the Serengeti in the shadow of Mount Kilimanjaro. The circular perfection of nature, it was all there on the canvas of those grassy plains. The professor felt the final, analytical lynch pin insert itself into the living machine of current events.
Why does this seem to happen every few hundred years, why do they rise?
It was icy rationale and strange poetry at the same time. Who better to thin the herd of the animal at the top of the food chain than the animal himself?
REQUIEM
The Deacon leaned back in his favorite high-backed chair and sighed. It wasn’t made of expensive leather. Instead, it was covered in a cloth that had seen better days. It was worn about the edges and showed the tread of time. Remind you of somebody, he thought to himself with a brief smile. The potato soup and hard roll was laid out on an end table beside him, a reward for another busy day. He watched
the steam rise and dance in the air before bowing his head.
“Dear Lord, I thank you for this day, this meal which shall empower me to do your work upon this tortured earth.” He felt a prayer should come from the heart, not from a book. He liked to free-style sometimes. An idea he got from kids who rapped off the top of their heads on the street corners. “There are many times I do not understand why you allow things to happen. I may never understand your wisdom. But, I must trust your will. Amen.”
He ate slowly, allowing himself to work his way through the events of the day. John’s talk at the meeting at the church had been a wonderful highlight of the day. The drama of his words and humor left a man truly inspired. While he had told his story, the Deacon’s eyes had surveyed the room. He had lost count of the number of times he could see someone connect with him. To see a person understand that others had gone through their pain as well. Carrying a burden was always hard but knowing you’re not alone made the load feel lighter, for a while at least.
Merging the AA group with the stress disorder counseling sessions seemed to be a step in the right direction. He had stumbled across the idea because of a need for a little free time. Besides, most of the stress disorder members already had alcohol and drug issues. This gave them a chance to work on the real core of their wounds. Not masking them with addiction. The road to recovery was hard enough without further pains.
He dipped the hard roll in the soup and chewed slowly while staring into space. He would finish the evening reading up on the Muslim and Hebrew faiths. Someone had commented to him that members of those two religions were having a hard time in Kentucky finding a place of worship since the evacuation of the cities. After some reading and study, he would contact them and make himself available. The best thing to do before that was study up on their potential needs.
The shadows did not grow long but took on deeper shades as he finished his meal and collected his thoughts for the evening ahead. His living room became awash in white light as a rare vehicle turned on to his street and moved down the road, so few could afford the luxury of gasoline these days. He himself had an electric car; he had found it when he ventured into the red zone and came across a dealership in his travels. A trip into the sales office had produced some keys and a few manuals. The car had started on the first attempt and had served him well since then. Its silence was a life saver, letting him cover wider ground on his trips into Louisville.
He was startled by a knock on the door. He took his dishes into the kitchen sink before even thinking of heading over to the door. His faith and schedule had made him a bachelor. It didn’t mean he could live like some kind of frat boy.
“I’m coming,” he called out as a new round of knocks at his door suggested urgency. He looked through the peep hole to see a police officer with a square jaw and squarer shoulders awaiting him. He snapped back the deadbolt and opened the heavy oak door wide.“Why, good evening, officer.”
“Evening, Father.” The officer nodded. “The Mayor would like a word with you.”
“All are welcome in this house.” Even the mayor he wanted to add, but stopped himself at the last moment. The officer nodded and walked back to a luxury vehicle parked in his driveway. He opened one of the passenger doors and conversed briefly with a figure in the back seat. The officer retreated and allowed a well-dressed man to emerge. His suit was grey with a white shirt and black tie. The man was about fifty with sandy-colored hair, darting green eyes and a full face.
“Mayor Patrick, this is indeed,” he paused and searched for the right word, “a pleasure.” No, that wasn’t the right word, he thought. But God will surely grant me the will to endure this man. He was a darling of the religious right. The Deacon knew them well, people who went to church but didn’t live the word. Faith to them was an act of convenience. When the words in the Good Book suited their opinion, they embraced it. The Deacon had delivered a sermon one Sunday called “Second-hand faith.” He had appealed to his congregation to read the scriptures.
“Don’t let someone else tell you what the Good Book says.” His voice had been in fine form that day. “Read it for yourself, judge for yourself, think for yourself. There are those who would take those words out of context, twist the meaning to their advantage. Suddenly, psalms of love and inclusion could become suspicion and hatred of those who worship differently or love differently.”
A cub reporter in the back had taken some notes down, published them the next day in the Gazette and a war of words had begun. Patrick had taken up the standard of the deep pocketed religious right and had ridden to the mayor’s chair on a wave of holy indignation. His victory was pyrrhic. He was now forever at their whims. The Deacon saw the man of power chained like Prometheus to the rock of their narrow-minded self-interest.
The Deacon became a celebrity overnight when a news crew from Sixty Minutes interviewed him on Skype. It had gone well enough and the lady reporter had deemed the story worthy to dig deeper. The Deacon always felt that insensitivity to others left you vulnerable to your own ignorance. The reporter had ripped the mayor apart with Bible quotes and references the Deacon had provided her, displaying the mayor’s lack of knowledge of the Good Book. Or any book for that matter, he remembered.
Then a follower of the mayor delivered the fait accompli to the story when he said, “Well hell, she’s black just like him. They’re just stickin’ together.” The Deacon did not respond and let the storm around the issue speak for itself. The deep-pocketed folks on the other side retreated and became invisible. The reporter, Molly Hunter, had interviewed him one more time about the practice of gofering. The Deacon had recalled Hunter had played it so cool. She asked questions about the issue as if they were talking about a third party that never cast suspicion on him. Weeks later, he received a Blackberry by special delivery from her with a note:
“If you see anything I should know about, let me know, if I may ask a favor. Please say a prayer for my sister Maggie. I’ll explain her situation in more detail soon. In the meantime, Stay safe and in God’s hands” – Molly.
“Evening preacher, may I come in?” The man was usually loud and bombastic. His subdued tone piqued the Deacon’s curiosity. When Patrick was standing in the living room he turned to face him. “We have had our differences.”
“Indeed, we have,” the Deacon replied calmly. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Very well, why not have a seat.” The Deacon sat in his favorite high-back while the mayor searched about and found the couch to ease himself into.
“You’re a gofer,” the mayor stated. It was not an accusation, but more a statement. The Deacon crossed his arms and decided to play this carefully.
“Why would you ask such a question?” His voice was low, probing for the meaning behind the visit.
“Now preacher, I understand some people at city hall take a dim view on gofering…” The mayor began.
“I believe you are one of them, sir,” the Deacon interrupted. “Calling it unchristian, grave robbing.”
“Well.” The mayor held up his hand in defense. “A man says a lot of crazy things when he’s trying to get re-elected.”
“I’m sure he does.” The Deacon nodded with a wisp of a smile. Let the man talk himself out, he thought.
“Anyway, I have been doing some research on the subject,” the mayor continued. “Did you know it saved the economy of Egypt?”
“Please explain.” For the first time in the mayor’s presence, the Deacon had to admit he was intrigued by what the man was saying.
“Well, you remember how all those kings of Egypt used to have all that gold and other riches buried with them for when they passed on?” The mayor leaned back in the couch with his eyes looking upward and to the right, a clear sign of trying to remember.
“Yes, the Pharaohs would do that.” The Deacon nodded slowly.
“Well, over time,” the mayor explained. “It seems taking all that gold and stuff out of circulation wa
s killing their economy.”
“Is that so?” The Deacon wanted to ask a few questions but decided to let the mayor make his pitch.
“It was the grave robbers who broke into the tombs and stole the stuff back. They redistributed it into the economy that saved things.” The mayor finished up, nodding to the Deacon.
“A form of economic check and balance,” the Deacon offered.
“I suppose so.”
“So, is this what you are going to say at the next town hall meeting?” the Deacon asked as politely as he could.
“You know how people are around here.” The mayor shook his head. “They take slow to new ideas.”
“Seems to me this is not a new idea if the Egyptians did it,” the Deacon said offhandedly. His answer was a long sigh. The mayor just simply was not the type to forge new ground.
“Preacher, I don’t want to argue with you.” His neck craned slightly forward, trying to be sincere. “Besides, all this stuff won’t matter in a few years anyway.”
“You mean you believe containment is the answer?” The Deacon stroked his chin and listened.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” The mayor‘s hands rested on his lap. “Contain the threat. They starve to death in a few years and we take back what’s ours.”
“We don’t know how much they need to eat, whether they can hibernate and whether they have an alternate food source.” The Deacon offered the counter argument. “Five years later, sir. We still know very little about them.”
“We know how to kill ’em,” the mayor offered.
“Indeed we do.” The Deacon nodded. There was a long pause.
The mayor lowered his head and swallowed hard before he raised his head and spoke. “I know we have had our differences, but I come asking a very large favor.”
“Forget our differences.” Love thy enemy the Good Book says, the Deacon thought. “Please, what do you need?”
“I have been looking for my little girl for five years.” The Deacon saw mist rise in his eyes. “I have thought for some time she was with relatives. Recently, I learned that was not the case. I now have reason to believe Annabelle is still in Louisville.”
5 Years After Page 27