by Jay Vielle
“But if we don’t enforce it, why would people go?” asked Lou.
“Because most people don’t think that far,” said Father Joe. “They just go. And for the handful who don’t, we don’t need to worry about them. Not for a while, at least.”
“Wow,” said Lou.
“Brilliant, Padre,” said Wes. “What do you plan to say to them?”
“We are going to take the first steps in creating the perfect community in the new, post-war world, Wes,” said Father Joe. “We’re going to set the rules, set the direction, and start the rebuilding process. Those who choose to join us will make us stronger. Those who don’t have the right to go elsewhere if they so choose.”
Mark Longaberger looked up nervously.
“What is the direction?” asked Mark. “What rules are you setting?”
“We simply want a kinder, gentler community, Mark. A Christian community,” said Father Joe.
“Of course, I’m sure,” said Mark.
“We want people who live here to be on Christ’s path,” said Father Joe. “There are basic Christian principles that we’re instructed to adhere to. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a place where everyone does that? I think that would be like a paradise on Earth. Devoid of crime, cruelty, poverty. And we have the opportunity now to make that here.”
Mark smiled skeptically back and nodded. In the back of his mind, he heard the advice that Jake Fisher had given him privately the day he had returned:
I want to give you a little warning, and you can do with it what you want. I know that you are involved with this church by default now, and on the surface they are doing outreach and seeming massive acts of charity. But privately, I have always had misgivings about them and their true motives. I just would suggest that you watch your step around them. If I’m wrong, you lose nothing by being careful and I end up looking stupid. But if I’m right, then you might avoid something that could turn out to be much worse. My gut tells me that these are not good people; that they wrap themselves up in flags and Bible verses to cover up feelings that represent the very worst in us. Just be careful. It’s easy to get seduced into their way of thinking. I know you were a good teacher, and I think you’re probably a good man, too. I’d hate to lose you.
It kept repeating over and over in Mark’s head whenever he heard Wes, or Father Joe, or Lou talk. He heard it when the church leaders like Pablo Fuentes, Emory Butler, or Billy and Rozlyn James talk. It had infected his head with skepticism—maybe even cynicism—towards everything they did. He felt both guilty and wary at the same time, and his face betrayed his internal struggle.
“Are you okay, Mark?” asked Father Joe.
“Yes. Yes, Father. No problem. Just thinking. Sorry,” Mark said. Father Joe smiled back and nodded. “You know, about what a world like that would be like,” said Mark. Father Joe’s smile widened.
“It would be Heavenly,” said the pastor.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Lou. “You’re gonna tell the town they have to meet in our football stadium, and they’re just gonna do it. And then you’re gonna tell them how to act, and they’re just gonna do it. Are you serious? Why would they do that?”
“Because we’re going to ask them nicely,” said Father Joe, “and appeal to their humanity.”
“And what if they don’t?” asked Lou.
“Membership has its advantages,” said Father Joe. Wes smiled and nodded knowingly.
“And not being a member will have its disadvantages,” said Wes. “Shall I give Ivan Morse a call?” asked Wes.
“Or better yet, go visit him, Wes,” said Father Joe. “Personal contact is so much more powerful. But do press upon him the exigence of his attendance, would you?” Wes smiled back and nodded.
“Exigence?” asked Lou.
“It means crucial importance,” said Mark.
“Exactly. You see Wes? I told you Mark would be a valuable new member of our flock,” said Father Joe. “Has anyone seen Pablo?”
“He was working on something with Billy and Emory. Why?” said Wes.
“I’d like Pablo to speak to the college about having representatives attend. Especially trustees who live here locally.”
“So, when exactly are we talking about having this mandatory meeting on the field?” asked Wes.
“Let’s set it a week from today,” said Father Joe. “That gives us time to maximize attendance and to get our ideas in line.”
“Sounds good, Padre. Lou, why don’t you go take a look at the football field, make sure it doesn’t need anything, and I’ll go find Pablo and chat with the local bank president,” said Wes.
“And Mark,” said Father Joe. “I have a project for you, too, if you’re up for it.” Mark nodded and followed the pastor down the hall.
* *
Morgan waved goodbye to the troops alongside Estela until our truck pulled out of sight down Jake’s long lane. She put her arm around Estela as she waved until we were gone, then she gently grabbed Estela’s shoulders and turned her around until she was facing Morgan.
“You and I need to talk,” Morgan said. Estela rolled her eyes.
“Seriously. We need to talk,” she said again. “Listen. I like you. I think I really, really like you. I’m one of those people who kinda believes in Fate, and there are a lot of reasons that this whole thing seems a little like Fate to me. But one thing I don’t believe in, and that’s that relationships take care of themselves. They require a lot of effort and attention, and you can’t just gloss over the fact that for the first several days I knew you, I actually knew someone else. The person you were pretending to be does not exist, and in front of me is the person you are. I’m not sure if that means I was falling for someone else, but I think it’s fair to say that does pose a few serious questions about the process. The story you gave me wasn’t real. I think I have a handle on more of it now, having heard the shouting match between you and your father, but I also know that in highly charged emotional scenarios, things like accuracy and truth go out the window. So, before we go another step, you need to be straight with me.”
Estela squirmed physically in the grasp of Morgan. She took a deep breath, looked skyward for a moment, then answered. “Okay. I will tell you everything. The truth,” she said.
“I wasn’t born in Texas,” she continued. “I’ve never even been to Texas, or California for that matter. I made all of that up because I thought there was no way you could have been there to verify my story, and I wanted you to feel for me. The story about the deporting my family and me having to live on my own—it sounded like something that made me, I don’t know, like a tragic figure or something. But the truth isn’t nearly as tragic. It’s more pathetic.”
“Hey,” Morgan said. “Everyone has a story, and their story is worth telling. You don’t need to make something up to get my attention. I didn’t fall for your fake history. I fell for that person who held my hand through the worst experiences of my young life. Now I just want to know who that person is.”
Estela smiled at that. “Well, my mother was a theology student from Argentina. She went to Spain to study and met my father at the Universidad de Salamanca. He was studying theology as well. Both of them were Catholic, and they fell in love and were married. I was born a few years later while my father was finishing his PhD. in Salamanca. We were happy there, and I even have some memories of being in Spain. My father was offered a position as a professor at the Universidad de Monterrey in Mexico when I was five years old. We moved there and began our lives. Both of my parents demanded that I learn English—they both knew it from their studies—and so we were a bilingual household. But when I was twelve, my mother got sick. I still don’t know what it was. The hospital said it was like influenza. All I know is that I never got to say goodbye to her. My father fell apart. He began drinking to excess, to the point of actually giving lectures while he was drunk. The university overlooked it for a while, but once he fell into a rage against a student in his class, and the
y fired him. He sobered up the next few months, but we ran out of money, and he was forced to look for work elsewhere.
He was offered a job at Mount St. Michaels here in Maryland. It was nothing like Mexico. I had never seen snow, or mountains quite like these. I loved it here. My father placed me in an all-girl Catholic school for middle and high school. I made good friends and did well and was very glad to have learned English. Some of the students treated me like an outsider because of my accent, but one friend of mine, Dawn, shielded me from any of them. She was good to me, and after a couple of years, we became best friends. Then one day, in my junior year of high school, Dawn kissed me unexpectedly. She immediately apologized, but I immediately knew that for some reason, it felt right. They say that being gay can be on a spectrum, but I knew almost instantaneously that I was. Right after that kiss. I kissed her back. We became lovers. But after a while, Dawn felt guilty. She lived in a homophobic household, and many of the people of this area are very, very conservative. She broke things off and began dating boys. I wondered if she felt the way I did. It’s funny, I look back now, and I think I can say I loved her then. But I don’t know if she ever felt as much for me as I did for her. We remained friends. That was hard for me, but I was determined not to make her feel bad for her decision. That was what allowed me to stay in her life. She made me swear to never speak of what we did, and I never did. We would go out together with groups of boys. She tried to get me to date them. I think she felt guilty. I never really could be with a boy after that. I prayed that I would get another chance with her, and hoped that maybe after we went to college, maybe that would be a time when I could try to be with her again.
When we both picked Mt. St. Michaels, I was elated. I went there obviously because my father taught there, and I could attend free. I think Dawn just wanted to stay close to home. Still, her parents allowed her to live in a dorm on campus. One night I went to visit her in her dorm room. Her roommate had gone away for the weekend. We talked a while, laughed, reminisced about old times, and when the mood was right, I kissed her. I was terribly afraid that she would shun me, but we stayed in her room the entire weekend. I was in Heaven. She allowed herself to do what I think she felt she naturally wanted to do. We decided to date in secret. I respected her desire not to tell anyone, and she allowed me back in her life. This continued for two more years. I had never been so happy.
Then one night she came to visit me at my home. My father was supposed to be lecturing a night class, but due to bad weather, it had been canceled and he had come home. He found us in the shower. He had opened the door, and we were making love so passionately that we didn’t even hear him. God knows how long he watched us before he finally broke and erupted in violence. He threw things, he broke things, he cursed. Dawn was naked, wet, and mortified. He refused to let her leave until he spoke to us. He told us of the sins of homosexuality. He read us passages from the Bible. He said things. Horrible, awful things. Dawn cried and cried and begged my father not to tell her family. He said he would remain silent on one condition: she would have to leave me and never return. If he ever saw us speaking together again, even casually, he would tell her parents. He also suggested that he would tell the administration at the school and she would surely be expelled. That part wasn’t true—but by then she was already gone. Lost forever. I was crushed.
We argued for weeks. Finally, he told me to leave. That I was no longer his daughter. I didn’t know what to do. I was a foreigner in America and had lived here for over ten years. Suddenly I had no ties to anyone, and with our president deporting so many Hispanics, I was frightened for my life. I had no life in Mexico, barely remembered Spain, and had never been to Argentina. I can’t imagine ever living somewhere else, and I was heartbroken for Dawn. I got an apartment and a job in town at the local Wal-Mart, and hoped that after a few years, my father would consider taking me back. But as the years went on, he started distancing himself even more. He found this new church—the Church of the Many Blessings. I was shocked, because he had always been such a staunch Catholic. He had even become Opus Dei after my mother died. But he said the new Pope was too soft on homosexuals, so he joined this new homophobic church, and I was lost to him completely. I had not spoken to him for a year until two days ago when you watched us scream at each other.”
Morgan was crying. She was controlling her breath, but her eyes were gushing rivers. Hearing Estela’s true story was even more moving than hearing her fake one. One look into Estela’s eyes as she told of her heartbreak, and Morgan was lost forever. She kissed Estela, and her tears made both their faces wet. They embraced and cried together. Morgan then backed away, took a deep breath, and smiled at Estela.
“I’m going to win your father back for you,” she said. Estela shook her head.
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t scare me. And I’m going to save him. He thinks that you are going to lose your soul, but he doesn’t remember what love really is. I’m going to show him. I’m going to win him over. I don’t care how long it takes,” Morgan said. Estela didn’t know what to say but was moved by Morgan’s desire to make her happy, so she simply hugged her, long and hard.
“And I’m going to start by finding out more about this church,” she said. “Whaddaya say we both become private detectives and see what makes this thing really tick?” Estela smiled back weakly and nodded. “We can stay clear of your father for a while until we get the lowdown, then maybe we can come up with a strategy. What do you think?”
“I think I may love you,” said Estela.
“Let’s go take this church down,” said Morgan.
CHAPTER 3
We were on the road, and no one was speaking. Tommy was in the front with Jake, and I was sitting in between Vinny and Wendy. Our backpacks and gear were in the trunk in the bed of the truck. After a few minutes of silence, I spoke up.
“Jake, this may be a dumb question, but could you check the radio. It’s been a week, and lots of places have power now. I don’t know if I can stand being in this silent cab much longer.” Jake smiled and turned on the radio. He pressed the scan button, and the radio started trying to seek out the stronger stations. Mostly it was fuzz, but then it hit upon a clear signal and Jake pressed the button again to keep it in that spot. The song that was on was “Big Yellow Taxi,” the version done by Counting Crows and Vanessa Carlton. I couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to hear music again.
Then the radio gave an ad for itself. It was one of those automated stations that is played randomly by a machine. I was kind of lured into believing there would be some normalcy in this world following the Cataclysm of World War III bombings, but we weren’t there yet. This station had probably been up and running the whole time, somehow unaffected by blackouts by some fortunate twist of fate.
“Is there any news on? We might have a better idea what we’re getting into,” I said.
“You sure are bossy back there, your grace,” said Jake. He flicked the switch again. After a few seconds, another clear signal came in.
“News on the hour. Once again, the federal government has declared Marshall Law in the following cities: Washington, D.C., Annapolis, Maryland; Baltimore, Maryland; Columbia, Maryland; Frederick, Maryland; Arlington, Virginia; Norfolk, Virginia…”
“Damn,” I said. “That’s a lot of Marshall Law. How are they gonna police all of those places?” I asked.
“They’re not,” said Jake. “That’s why this plan is going to work. I am guessing that each of those cities got hit with that new weapon. Wendy, what did you call it?”
“Brenerium. It’s a different kind of radiation, and they’ve infused it somehow with what is essentially a copy of the Ebola virus. The Brenerium basically acts as a catalyst with the illness. Instead of taking hours or days to die, it takes minutes. I’m oversimplifying it, of course. It’s pretty horrible to see up close. It mimics a lot of the symptoms of regular Ebola.”
“And what are those?” asked Vinny.
“Muscle fatigue, fe
ver, severe bleeding, organ failure, seizures, vomiting. It’s awful. I was watching on monitors during one of the raids on Montreal. The victims up close to the explosions experienced all of those in the span of about ten minutes. They died convulsing. It was grisly to watch,” said Wendy.
“So why did you?” asked Tommy.
“It’s my job,” she answered. “I have to study this crap to keep everyone else safe.”
“Guess that didn’t work so well,” said Tommy. Just then Jake backhanded Tommy across his chest with a thud.
“That’s enough of that shit, boy,” said Jake. “Same team, remember?” Tommy scowled at his father. For a moment I thought he might hit Jake back, despite his driving.
“You wanna get shitty, there are half a dozen foreign countries you can get good and shitty with. Those are the folks to blame for all of this, and you’re welcome to take out your frustrations on them, but not with the people driving in this truck who are risking life and limb to rescue your mother,” Jake said. Vinny nodded ever so slightly with his eyebrows raised. I did the same back at him. Wendy looked perturbed, and maybe even a little hurt. Tommy’s antipathy towards her was starting to show glaringly now, and it could be an impediment to our making this crazy-ass quest successful.
“I would guess the same thing, Jake,” said Wendy, starting up again. “I mean, about those places being ones where bombs hit.”
“Why aren’t these places blown to bits again?” asked Vinny.
“Because it seems that some of the countries—Russia in particular—were looking more for a means of high mortality and casualty rate, but low destruction rate. The Colonel believes that’s because they want to move into a turn-key kind of country rather than having the great expense of cleaning up and rebuilding. These Brenerium bombs are detonated high in the air. The EMP’s knock out much of the power in the immediate area and the Brenerium-ebola combination takes out the population,” said Wendy.
