5 Years After

by Richard Correll

  The world suddenly got very loud, The APC swerved violently and wound up on the sidewalk, scattering rusted patio tables and chairs in front of a darkened restaurant. Hands and screaming Dante-esque faces appeared at the window pounding on the huge pane of glass. Cannon fire knitted a perfect line down the spot on the street where the APC had been a fraction of a second earlier. The second helicopter flashed passed at a two-story level. It turned at a clearing.. Considering a second run, the commander pointed an empty tube in the direction of the chopper. The bluff worked. The helicopter peeled away and sought the sanctuary of higher altitude.

  The vehicle extricated itself from the sidewalk wreckage. A man in blue jeans and a blood-soaked hoodie tried to climb up the vehicle. His jaw hung at an impossibly low angle, bobbing up and down with his movements. As the vehicle pulled out into the street, the commander fired two shots from ten feet away with his sidearm. One penetrated a space between the man’s nose and right eye. It fell backwards from the force of the impact. His jaw was now lying on his chest. The Commander looked back and saw his missile had been a failure. Two helicopters stood a thousand yards away, stationary in the air, just hovering. He felt suddenly cold.

  “Find me an alleyway,” he screamed. “Find me an alleyway now!”

  The gears grinded into reverse and the APC crossed Poplar Level as two puffs of smoke appeared on either side of both helicopters. The missiles would be hitting in seconds. The Stryker backed into the storefront of a boutique and buried itself in the building.

  The sudden move and short range gave the heat-seeking missiles little time to correct their flight path. The commander felt the flames of their afterburners as he ducked into his hatch.

  Two of the missiles smashed into a music store two doors down. They penetrated the glass storefront before finally hitting an object that was solid enough to detonate the warheads. The explosion was powerful enough to collapse the music building and rock the APC so hard that it briefly sat in mid-air on four wheels before landing again.

  “We have to move!” The commander yelled at his driver. The vehicle began to pull out of the boutique wreckage. Hands appeared in front of the driver’s slit and instantly disappeared under the vehicle. The wheels turned slowly and breaking timbers could be heard as the APC moved into a cloud of almost zero visibility dust. Free of the building, they turned right up Poplar Level. They were running blind but were also invisible to the choppers.

  The sign appeared on his left out of the thick dust: THIS WAY TO THE LOUISVILLE MEGACAVERNS

  “Turn left!” He was choking on the dust.

  “I saw the sign, sir.” The vehicle swerved hard left, the front two wheels crushing the hood of a sports car as the APC hurried on through the dust. Two specters appeared in the road and turned slowly toward the APC. They were run down before they even had a chance to take a threatening step further. The muttering of a helicopter engine could be heard nearby. They clearly weren’t giving up the chase. The commander checked the screen of the remote firing system and began to turn the M2 machine gun to his rear.

  The road to the Megacaverns proved to be almost free of debris. I guess this was the last place you’d want to be while evacuating, he thought. The parking lot they passed on the left was full. They crashed through the entrance gate as the M2 swung its turret around to search for the aerial predators. They didn’t have too long to wait. At a huge bend on Taylor Avenue, the machine gun fired two short bursts. The commander loaded up the SAM and fired off a second round blindly, anything to keep the choppers from drawing a bead on their scurrying prey.

  The entrance to the cavern was just that, a large rectangle cut out of rock on Taylor Avenue, nothing fancy. They could drive right in if they made it.

  The APC lined itself up to the entrance with the pedal to the floor. The commander fired off his third and last SAM in the direction of the choppers. He didn’t expect a hit, just to distract the pilots long enough from launching their missiles

  Twenty yards away he saw the telltale puffs of smoke from the choppers. The missiles would be there in seconds. No, he whispered. Not this close. Not this close. He closed the hatch in a vain attempt to take cover. The APC crashed through the admission gates and into the darkness of the caverns, penetrating a good thirty yards before a blast shook the ground, walls and vehicle. At the explosion the cavern’s mouth closed under an avalanche of rock, boulders and dust.

  They sat in the dark for a minute, breathing, thinking and listening. The vehicle seemed to sag at a slight angle to the left. It was either a cracked axle or it was resting on debris. A huge noise filled the air. Even through the armored walls of the APC it sounded like a waterfall.

  “That’s one hell of a burst pipe,” a crewman said, looking at the remote weapons screen. “Smoke everywhere, can’t see a damn thing, its pitch black.”

  “Smoke,” The commander sniffed. “We may have a vehicle fire.” The two others began to scramble for the hatches. “Whoa! We don’t know what’s out there!”

  “What are you suggesting, sir?” The driver was yelling above the waterfall. “We cook inside this thing?”

  “I’m sayin’ we play it cool, Corporal.” The commander added the rank of the soldier as a reminder of who was in charge. “Hit the headlights.”

  “Damn it,” the driver swore after clicking the switches several times. “They’re all out.”

  “Try thermal imaging,” the commander ordered.

  “Thermal imaging,” The screen came to life. The assistant raised his voice over the waterfall. “Thermal imaging says nothing out there.”

  “Let’s have a look.” He popped the command hatch. Half a dozen cold, wet hands had a firm grip before he could react. His kicking legs were the last thing the crew saw of their commander as he was dragged into oblivion. The crew tried to close the hatch but hands, arms and bodies began to squeeze into the space with the fury of a starving animal. The last crewman crawled to the back of the vehicle, put his sidearm in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His last thought was of going down a slide when he was six years old. As he reached the bottom a cloud of blackness enveloped his world.

  *

  The Deacon let the moment of relief wash slowly over him again and again. The stinging wound where Mrs. Porter had bitten him was just a welt. Still, he slipped into Audubon Hospital and searched the empty pantries for disinfectant. It had been several hours and he had felt no ill effects. The time passing was an eternity as he had been left alone with a feeling that kept trying to creep back into his senses. We all know our lives are not going to go on forever but, the potential of sudden end leaves us unnerved, shaken. We want to crawl away into a safe hiding place. We become our most primal thoughts.

  “There are no safe places,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

  He had climbed up to the second floor using the grappling hook and slipped into a broken window. He had then taken a metal chair and propped it between a dividing wall and the door. Nothing was getting in as he listened to the rhythm. He always heard it here. He had a feeling he always would. That sound was always ever-present in the silence.

  He had time to properly pray for the souls of Ned and his companions. For the crewman who had been butchered near his church, for Jeremy and Mrs. Porter. Finally, he prayed for the mayor. He had always seen him as an obstacle, a self-righteous pillar against any progression in their community. Now, he saw him as a father, hoping and praying against all odds for a miracle. He had known all this time and just couldn’t face the reality. She was gone.

  This is a not a mission, it is a requiem.

  We do our penance every day. He saw the sun come out and play through the window, illuminating dust particles. We are the living. Some days we envy the dead. They don’t wake up with a start in the middle of the night at the slightest sound. They don’t start to panic if we are outside for a few minutes longer than normal. They are the ones who don’t have to live in fear every day. We are the unlucky ones, we, the living.


  “Lord, if I have forgotten you today, I apologize,” he whispered. Then, he thought of the welt on his shoulder. “You clearly have not forgotten me.”

  He listened to the rhythm again and again, a reverberation unique to places like this all over the world. He guessed. Not everyone had heard it. He started to stand up and put his jacket on. Maybe they should. Maybe hearing it would bring us closer to understanding our world.

  He slipped out the broken window and stood on the gravel of the second-story roof. Surveying his situation carefully, he could see figures moving in the distance. But, they were not aware of him. They continued performing the slow ponderous amble into eternity. He had seen it so many times. Mostly, the faces were blank hideous stares. Then there were times when the walk seemed to have some vague purpose, the face drawn up in a gruesome vision of concentration. Others would simply walk the same steps back and forth forever. Like the needle on a phonograph skipping until the end of time.

  Is that who I am? Am I to forever return to my past to try to make it right? Like a needle on a phonograph skipping forever? When it’s done, what then? Is this all you’re living for? He had to admit he wasn’t brave enough to explore any of those questions just now.

  He began to whisper: “Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it. Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved, but hope for the patience to win my freedom. Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling your mercy in my success alone, but let me find the grasp of your hand oh, Lord. I beg thee, your faithful servant. Amen.”

  He slipped down the rope and reached into his jacket for a second Blackberry battery. He wanted lots of juice to film this. A slow and careful look around revealed nothing, most of them were probably still scouring the wrecked APC. Slipping batteries in these devices always required perfect fingernails. Probably the only person fortunate enough to have that was the person who designed them. He produced a small screwdriver that proved up to the task. He lined up the battery correctly and slapped the cover back on. Again, he slowly looked around, nothing. His destination had a separate entrance and he walked slowly toward the pounding rhythm. The device made the Deacon think of Molly Hunter and the gift of the Blackberry that may have saved him. His memory thread continued on to her hell born sister Maggie.

  That girl sounds like a handful, he thought after some introspection. Maggie performed above and beyond the call of duty. Indeed, he drew a slow breath. She’s just the type who stirs the pot and calls out the inconvenient truths by name and says to hell with the consequences.

  “Well, guess it’s time to tell the truth.” The Deacon muttered and began to walk toward the chaotic rhythm. It’s time to go pull a Maggie. Yes, that was the only way to describe what he was about to do.

  Hours later, he stood in a park. The grass had grown to such lengths that it had collapsed and died under its own weight. The park resembled a wheat field after a tornado. Rusting monkey bars and slides made up the skyline in this part of Louisville. The Deacon kept his senses aware of his surroundings while he concentrated on the swing-set in front of him.

  “Hello Annabelle,” he said gently.

  She was sitting on a swing staring into space. The beautiful blonde curls were matted from time. The face was still angelic. She peacefully was turning her face to the sun and allowing the gentle wind to soothe her. She was dressed in pajamas that had princesses on them. The shoes were ruby red satin, though they were barely visible with the undergrowth entwining itself around her feet. One vine had made it all the way up to her knee. Had she actually been sitting there all this time? The Deacon wondered.

  “Child, I have come to take you home.” The Deacon stepped closer.

  Her eyes looked at him quizzically. She cocked her head slightly for a moment or two. Then, the mouth parted. The little baby teeth gnashed and snapped at him while she leaned closer. The little feet stepped off the swing and immediately stumbled and fell face-first on the ground, tangled in the weeds and vines.

  The Deacon’s firm hand came down on the back of her neck and held her there. The struggling figure did everything to try to break free. Twisting, pushing back against the force holding her down, he placed the nail gun against the back of her head.

  “By the authority granted me by the Holy See, I impart to you a plenary indulgence and the remission of all sins. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen,” he said sadly and added, “Just close your eyes, child. It will be all right now.” He squeezed the trigger. The sneeze of compressed air coincided with Annabelle’s body going limp.

  The Deacon glanced around the park. Five figures were at the other end, slowly turning this way and that like they were on slow, rotating pedestals. They could smell something but they weren’t sure yet where it was coming from. He had time.

  He produced a plastic bag and some scissors from his back pack. Carefully, he cut away parts of her hair not covered in blood. He removed her shoes and carefully placed them in his pack. She wore two rings and a cross around her neck. They were soundlessly placed in a pouch, remembrances for a soon-grieving father. He looked up and saw the five figures begin to amble toward him. It was time to leave.

  He did not run but walked briskly in the direction he had come from, eyes open and concentrating on his surroundings. As long as he enjoyed at least a slight advantage in speed on his pursuers he was safe. He had mapped out where he was bound and how he would get there. The planning phase of his operation was kicking in. The Deacon was still concerned about the one surviving APC. He had no knowledge of its final fate.

  For that and other reasons he chose his exit through Bear Grass Park, following the South Fork of Bear Grass Creek that wound its way through Cherokee Park, Seneca Park and Big Spring Country Club before he would exit at the Henry Watterson containment line. The journey offered wide open spaces to avoid any creatures he might encounter. It would be difficult terrain for multi-wheeled vehicles like the APC. He still had plenty of hours of daylight to accomplish the multi-mile hike. He fished a water bottle from his backpack and drank deeply. He concentrated on a quick, steady pace while occasionally touching the nail gun in its holster for security.

  *

  The knock on the door was muffled, almost hesitant. A few minutes later, the Deacon tapped on the door again. It finally opened. The mayor stood at the door in jeans and a sweater. The man seemed to look around the Deacon for a moment. Hoping he was not alone. A flash of acceptance crossed his face.

  “Evenin’ preacher,” He smiled bravely, “Won’t you please come in?”

  “Please forgive the lateness of the hour.” The Deacon wiped his feet on the mat and walked through the door with a canvas bag in his hand. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Not at all,” The mayor was dreading what was next. “Please have a seat and tell me what happened.”

  “I will not go into too much detail.” The Deacon perched himself on the edge of a chair. “I found her on some swings in a park. She was given the last rites in a truly Christian manner.”

  “I thank you, sir.”

  “I have some effects that you may wish to have in memory of Annabelle.” The Deacon reached into the canvas bag and produced a small, wooden box, He handed it across to the mayor along with a paper bag containing her shoes. The mayor examined the box briefly and opened it. Inside among the velvet interior there was a crucifix, two rings and a plastic bag containing her hair clippings. A brief second passed before the box began playing “You are so beautiful.”

  He listened to the melody play and a slow nod of his head began. He closed his eyes and touched the crucifix. He fingers landed on the plastic bag containing her hair clippings and the music box continued. The nodding of his head grew more vibrant and he began to sob quietly. “Oh, my beautiful baby girl,”

  “My beautiful, beautiful baby girl,” The sobbing became louder as his heart and hope broke together. Fat
tears rolled down his cheeks like raindrops on a window pane.

  “My beautiful baby girl,” he repeated as the Deacon kneeled down in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “She is at peace now,” the Deacon whispered.

  “Yes, yes, thank you.” He looked up through water of his tears. “I so miss her running through the house, her laughter.” He paused again, trying to stop the sobbing. It was impossible. When a heart breaks, the Deacon thought, it must truly break all the way before the healing can begin.

  The Deacon closed his eyes and he recited:

  Go forth, Annabelle upon your final journey. Go from this world and rest in peace in the presence of God the Father, who created you; in the love of Jesus our Lord, who calls you his friend, and in the warmth of the Holy Spirit, who has made his home in you.

  In death your life is now changed, not ended, and we give you back to our faithful God who first gave you to us.

  On our common pilgrimage we have accompanied you as far as we can go

  Blessed be the child and Annabelle’s father.

  Let him find comfort in you, oh Lord and

  in knowing she is with you until we are all

  together again. Amen

  TWO WEEKS LATER:

  The manila envelope had arrived unceremoniously at the mayor’s office, stashed in among the many letters and reports he received every morning. The first of his duties was always to arrange the correspondences into several piles and delegate them to the staff members who had the proper qualifications to deal with their contents.

  When the Deacon’s envelope fell out of the stack, he weighed it in his hand and walked over to his briefcase and placed it inside. He would digest the contents after dinner in his study. As he moved through the day of endless meetings and reports, the mystery of the envelope was not far from his mind. The last two weeks had shaken him. The mayor was unsure why or what was happening. But he had chosen to walk during lunch hours. Even to take drives around the city at sunset. It was an idea that sent his security staff in a tizzy. The mayor said they could tag along, but, not in his car. That vehicle was reserved for him alone and his thoughts.