5 Years After

by Richard Correll

  “Alive?” The Deacon’s brow furrowed.

  “A father can only hope,” His voice cracked. He fumbled in his coat pocket and produced several photographs. The Deacon carefully looked them over.

  “Can you give me your address when you were in Louisville?” The Deacon’s voice was smooth and understanding. This was a father. “Places she loved to be?”

  “2252 Valley Vista Road.” The mayor recited the address like it was yesterday. “She spent most of her time in the park nearby. She just loved that park.” The Deacon studied the mayor’s face as memories passed in front of the man’s eyes.

  “If I do not find her alive,” The Deacon broached the delicate subject. “As her father, what do you wish me to do?”

  The mayor’s eyes betrayed a sad acceptance to the facts. There was a time when people preached to him their sureness that the ones close to them were alive. Furious when he raised the subject of their possible demise. Now, sad acceptance seemed to take over from the last of hopes. We are now a coldly pragmatic world, the Deacon observed to himself.

  “Then, if you could,” the mayor’s hands came together almost in prayer, his voice husky and low. “If you could please, take her from this world in a Christian manner.”

  “I will take care of it for you, Mayor.”

  “I thank you, sir.” He looked down at his hands before asking. “How much do I pay for this?”

  “Whatever you can spare,” the Deacon replied kindly. “It’s a donation to the church. Our ongoing work to help the orphans and widows of this plague upon us.”

  “Yes, of course.” The mayor nodded before looking from right to left. “What do I do now?”

  “I could pray with you,” the Deacon offered and the mayor immediately clasped his hands. He closed his eyes so quickly that the mist in them transformed to tears and rolled down his cheeks. The Deacon’s voice was kind and soothing:

  “Heavenly Father, we are your humble servants. We come before you today in need of hope. There are times when we feel helpless. There are times when we feel weak and pray for hope. We need hope for a better future. We need hope for a better life. We need hope for love and kindness.”

  “Some say that the sky is at its darkest just before the light. I pray that this is true, for all seems dark. If Annabelle is still with us, she needs your light.”

  “Help us to walk in your light to be with Annabelle. And that she may live her life in faith and glory.”

  “In your name I pray, Amen.”

  “Amen,” the mayor whispered and sniffed. He raised his head but he did not speak. He seemed to collect his thoughts slowly and carefully. “Thank you, I….I don’t know what to say.”

  “It is better to have a heart with no words,” the Deacon observed “Than words with no heart.”

  “I never heard that before,” the mayor said thoughtfully. “Is that from the Scriptures?”

  “No, it is from the teachings of Gandhi.” The Deacon rose and began to show the mayor to the door. “I will be in touch within a few days.”

  “Thank you,” He seemed uncomfortable at being so vulnerable. He made his way to the door, nodded once more to the Deacon and headed toward the headlights of his car.

  The Deacon watched him step into his car without a second glance back. He looked down at the old photographs in his hand. The blonde curls and brilliant eyes in a white Sunday dress. Such a wonderful child, the mayor must be ravaged with guilt. So much so that he would reach out to the man who had humiliated him years ago. The mayor was a prideful man. The Deacon looked up and watched the car disappear. Even pride comes second to a father’s love.

  The Deacon settled back into his chair with a map and waited for the tea to boil. He immediately decided against Martin Luther King Road. It was still a mess from the evacuation. The rest he would plan tomorrow. It promised to be a sunny day, poor weather for trips into Louisville. However, the weatherman on the radio called for the possibility of downpours overnight tomorrow. The rain always dulled their sense of smell and vision, enough at times for you to walk right by them if the downpour was hard enough.

  “Tomorrow night, then,” He nodded to pictures of the pretty girl as the tea kettle whistled.

  He was lying in bed when they came to him, Mrs. Archibald who always wore those stylish hats that seemed to be from Derby day. She had been a large white woman in her sixties with huge bosoms and an even larger heart. She loved to bake cookies and tell the children stories. Young Kenneth Otoyo, a lanky teen who always called him “sir” but secretly loved his tunes gangsta. He had a stylish suit on that he secretly loved to wear, showing off to the ladies. Mr. Threllen, a man who always had a clean suit to wear no matter what state of employment he was experiencing. He was a tall man with dignity and a bald, black skull that glistened in the church lights. The deacon could tell how long he’d been talking by how many times Threllen had to wipe the perspiration from his head. They walked into his room silently, heads bowed.

  “Where were you?” It was a whisper. Like a distant wind on the curtains of his open window.

  “They said to evacuate. I did.” He tried to explain once again. “They told me to leave.”

  “We waited for you.” It was louder this time, like approaching thunder.

  “I never thought you would go to the church…” He was trying to be calm. To help them understand.

  “Where were you?” Young Otoyo asked. Bloody chunks of skin fell from his mouth like spit.

  “Please try to….”

  “We waited for you…” Mrs. Archibald turned toward him. Her body had been disemboweled. What was left hung below the knee of her dress line like thick white worms.

  “Please….”

  “Where were you?!” Mr. Threllen leaned forward, so close he could smell the dead flesh that he had consumed after he died. His hollowed-out right eye was now home to thousands of maggots that scurried about his face and dropped on the covers of his bed. As the maggots landed on his linen they grew to the thickness of his fingers and burrowed into the blankets. Searching for and finding his skin. They were eating away as they tunneled to his soul.

  “WE WAITED FOR….”

  Shrillness filled the air. He blinked and tried to stop hyperventilating. The sheets were soaked in sweat. His skin was slippery to the touch, muscles aching from being tense all night. He stared at the alarm clock for the longest time before finally reaching over and silencing it. He stared at the ceiling. There were cracks running like rivers on a landscape here and there. He slowly followed them to their destinations as his breathing finally slowed.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am so sorry.”

  He walked into the bathroom and threw cold water on his face. He took a long stare at his thin face and the morning whiskers that needed a trim. The athletic build for a man of forty-five was something to be proud of. But, he focused on the brown eyes. Many said they made him look so wise and cultured. All he could see now was the sadness, infinite sadness that formed deep wrinkles in his chocolate black skin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  The tea steadied his nerves and the bagel calmed his stomach. He sat at the kitchen table with a worn map of Louisville in front of him. Yes, he knew most of the streets. He had been there before. But, the true key to all of this was to never underestimate the danger. There had been many who had done this job two years ago, but few remained. His first order of business was to enter during a rainfall. The second was not to get lost. The third was to know what he was looking for. Find it and get out.

  As he had decided last night, Martin Luther King Road was not an option. New Burg Road also had its issues with traffic jams that had become silent, four-wheeled graves during the evacuation. If his car failed, an emergency way out could be South Fork Bear Grass Creek. A thin waterway in a park with light vegetation that offered excellent sightlines and plenty of room to run in any direction you chose. Just don’t walk at night. Daylight was the only way to travel.<
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  Poplar Level Road was always the best way to enter. The traffic and vehicles had been removed in a vain attempt two years ago to reclaim the city center. Although it had failed, it offered a way in that had not existed before. Besides, Ned would be there. He and his platoon were always easygoing and allowed passage, for a nominal fee, of course.

  Besides, Parkdale Church was near that road. He sipped the tea thoughtfully and remembered so many years before. People who had listened to the sermon and discussed it honestly and how it affected lives. This was not about blindly following faith. It was about taking something you heard and applying it to your life for the better of yourself, folks trying to be better people for their family, neighbors and community. A few words that could slowly make things better. The Deacon had always believed spirituality was many things to many people. To the old and sick it was closure. To others, it was guidance. The after life? How about right here, right now.

  “Then where were you?” Mr. Threllen’s voice was suddenly everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He pushed the remains of the bagel away. His appetite was suddenly a memory.

  The Deacon’s alarm announced it was midnight. He sat up slowly in the darkened room and collected himself. He dressed slowly, carefully. Insuring everything he needed was in the right place. He drank heavily sugared tea to waken his senses and a light breakfast of fruit and a bagel. He would pack sandwiches for later. He took an army green backpack and slowly loaded the essentials. A rope with a grappling hook and screwdrivers for protection in close combat was a good start. He then slipped on his heavy utility belt and holstered a modified 16-gauge nail gun.

  The modified nail gun offered so many advantages over a regular sidearm. Its huge nails could penetrate an attacker’s skull from up to twenty feet away. It was quieter than the standard pistol. Especially since he had wrapped the whole thing in memory foam and duct tape. The ammunition supply was practically unlimited with hundreds of nails per clip while a pistol only had six to eight shells. The Deacon packed an extra charged battery just in case.

  He relished his second cup of tea in silence and slowly went through the map in his head. It would be easy not to get lost. The entire operation would be in daylight and hopefully, a heavy downpour. After finishing the mug, he rose up and slipped on two heavy long-sleeve undershirts and a thick sweater. He pulled on a long black raincoat that hung to his ankles. The Deacon wrapped a heavy scarf around his neck and topped it off with a black, wide-brimmed hat. The heat would make him sweat like a bridegroom but it was the price of safety. He finally walked over to the coffee table and picked up the picture of Annabelle.

  “I pray you’re still alive, child.” He slipped the picture into his coat pocket and headed toward the door without a glance back.

  The windshield wipers set a slow rhythm to the drive toward the Poplar Check point. The Deacon took his time. He had made sure he would be there in the first light of dawn. No use wasting daylight, his father would say when they used to get up early to go fishing. The phrase always had a warm memory attached to it.

  They came out of the darkness like massive charging bulls. The shadows of the night made these strange military vehicles more sinister. The Deacon checked around his car for hostile movement. Seeing none, he unclipped his safety belt and opened the door into the less-than-safe darkness. He watched the tail lights of the strange eight wheeled things. He noticed that they had mostly been darkened out. His eyebrow curled into a suspicious arc. The Deacon once again turned around slowly and carefully watched the darkness. He knew this wasn’t safe but he also knew something unusual was happening. Call it instinct, call it a hunch or just that he had not seen anything like a military vehicle of that size for a while. He turned to his right to listen for a growing rumble out of the dark. In the shadows it looked like an animal on all fours stalking through the darkness.

  He reached into his pocket and found the cold plastic of his Blackberry. The vehicle came closer to his position as it picked its way through the ageless highway debris. Enough had been pushed aside to make room for eighteen-wheelers that always kept the lines of commerce open.

  The Deacon watched the shadow move closer and closer. He was no expert but it was clearly a military vehicle of some kind. Multi-wheeled and arrayed with a host of high caliber weapons, it looked all business. As the armored personnel carrier drove past, he raised his Blackberry and snapped a picture. The flash illuminated a moment in time: the vehicle no more than twenty feet away in drab green with the commander in his tight-fitting helmet, the look of surprise and suspicion at the picture flash and the way their eyes met, The Deacon’s calm gaze, the eyes growing wider on the commander’s face. The vehicle began to drive off down the road. Slowly, it was swallowed up by the darkness. The commander’s head swiveled to keep an eye on the Deacon who stood by the roadside. The last thing he could make out was the commander reaching down into his hatch for something.

  *

  “Jackrabbit Five to Jackrabbit One.” The voice was rushed.

  “This is Jackrabbit One, go ahead.”

  “Some guy on the side of the road just took our picture, please advise, over.”

  “Over my pay grade, halt column, will check with Sandleford.”

  *

  The Deacon watched the brake lights suddenly appear in the darkness. The red glow in the middle of the road was eerie. He was starting to get a sixth sense of panic. You had it these days after prolonged periods outdoors. The primal fight-or-flight mechanisms were kicking in. Even in the relative safety of the rain, he could feel the whispers of the dark, a sense of something closing in. He turned back to his car and jumped in the driver’s seat. The locks popping into place gave him a sense of safety that he was not ashamed of.

  “This is Sandleford Down, what’s up, Jackrabbit One?”

  “Sir, we are twenty miles from Watership Down. Someone has just taken our picture with an electronic device, over.”

  “Stand by for orders, Jackrabbit One.”

  *

  The Deacon flipped to the picture on the Blackberry. A drab green vehicle caught in the white of the camera flash. The Deacon was drawn to the curious look of concern on the commander’s face, the lips parting into an oval and the eyes so intense as if watching a potential threat. So what? You’re getting your picture taken. Most of these people don’t mind. Unless…

  The emblem on the vehicle......

  He touched the screen and zoomed in slowly. His older fingers were not as nimble as they used to be. He carefully worked the screen closer with his thumb and forefinger. A tree of some kind, he could make that out. He leaned back in the driver’s seat and it started to make sense. Like the last page of your favorite detective novel. A slow sense of dread mixed itself with a budding curiosity. It was an unusual emotional cocktail. The emblem…

  General John C. Beauregard’s Republic of West Virginia, he realized.

  “You gentlemen are not supposed to be here.” He whispered aloud as he tapped open his email app and scrolled down for Molly Hunter’s number.

  *

  “Jackrabbit one, this is Sandleford Down.” The voice finally returned. “How far are you from Watership Down?”

  “We are twenty miles to Watership Down,” The commander looked at the sign in the distance: FORT KNOX 20 Miles.

  “Acknowledged,” Sandleford said calmly. “We have your orders regarding the photographer.”

  “Go ahead, Sandleford.”

  “Jackrabbit One, you are to obtain the device and photo. Repeat. It is imperative to obtain device and photo,” Sandleford reported.

  *

  “I do hope this note from an old friend finds you well.” He loved the full keyboard on the Blackberry. It made for such easy messaging. “I just thought it was strange to see General Beauregard’s forces so far into Kentucky territory. “ He attached the close-up photo and hit send.

  *

  “Sandleford Down, this is Jackrabbit One, after procuring the device and photo. Sh
all we take the photographer into custody or release? Over.”

  “Negative, Jack Rabbit One. Let’s not take chances. On my orders terminate the photographer.” The voice was tense. There was a lot was on the line here.

  “Uh….say again, Sandleford Down?”

  “You are to terminate the photographer with extreme prejudice. That is an order.”

  *

  “You’ve reached the office of the Mayor.” The voice message system chimed in during his second call.. “Sorry I can’t take y’all’s call right now, please leave a message.” The short beep left the Deacon wondering what to do.

  “Mayor it’s the Deacon. I am running my errand for you now.” The Deacon decided to fill him in. “I am at the Snyder Freeway and I am watching General Beauregard’s forces passing me by. Something tells me this is not a social call. You may want to have someone look in on that.”

  Bam! The white pasty hands hit his window with such force the car shook. They pounded on the windshield twice before searching with torn fingers for an opening. The eyes were coal black and yellow, the skin was pockmarked with huge, bloody scabs that continued on up his forehead like he had taken buckshot in the face. The lips seemed abnormally large as they played along the glass, searching for something to bite.

  The Deacon took his eyes off of the thing long enough to see the brake lights brighten on two vehicles and suddenly disappear. They’re turning around, he realized. His instinct put the car in drive and he pressed down on the accelerator. The face pressing against the glass fell away and disappeared. Suddenly, it was just a shadow in the rear view mirror. While the armored personnel carriers tried to turn around in the tight quarters of the freeway’s wrecks, the Deacon was on Poplar heading to the checkpoint and freedom.