First Weeks After

by Jay Vielle

  “I hadn’t told them your call sign yet. They know all about you, Jake. Don’t worry,” said the Colonel.

  “So what’s the plan?” Jake asked.

  “We are actually going to split up,” said the Colonel. “My Jeep will take north of the Mall. The White House, the Ellipse, Lafayette Square and Pennsylvania Avenue, all the way up to H Street. You and Vinny will take everything south of the Mall down to the Anacostia. Stay between L’Enfant Plaza and the Mall as you move East, and let’s stay on this side of the Capitol Building. We will start with this grid, and then move out concentrically,” said the Colonel.

  “Got it, Colonel. But my wife, Laura, she went into the Metro last time. Are we going there?”

  “Negative, Marine. That’s a whole new mission. We have to hope we see her above ground. Remember, some of the goals have changed. The more mutates we capture the better, especially if we are able to get any of the leaders, like your wife. And of course, she’s the prime target,” the Colonel said. Jake nodded, which meant he wasn’t entirely satisfied with the Colonel’s answer.

  “Stay tuned on the walkie for any word of sightings and be prepared to support. Right now, our primary objective is to spot them, while Units Charlie and Echo will target, sedate, capture and prepare for extraction by the medic units. We have six units on standby. If we get more than six mutates, we’ll need to regroup and call up more support,” the Colonel said.

  “Got it,” said Jake. “We’re off.”

  Jake and Vinny rode off down Jefferson Drive along the front of the museums. They drove slowly, looking all around for any movement whatsoever. Jake was taking it block by block, and Vinny looked carefully with binoculars.

  “Alright you two, are you ready? It’s our turn,” said the Colonel, as he hit the gas and we took a hard left on 12th Street headed to the intersection with Constitution Avenue. The Mall was on either side of us now. I was excited, of course, but there was a kind of sadness in me that reminded me that I had no real place here. I wasn’t military, I wasn’t the son of a mutate we were trying to study and save. I was a tag-along. I suppressed that thought with a hard swallow. It isn’t productive to think that way when there’s a job to be done.

  “The mutates tend to congregate where the bodies are. There were more here, out in the open, a few days ago. The brigade has carted many of them away. I’m hoping the mutates haven’t moved on. They were concentrated heavily in these more public areas first,” the Colonel said. We drove north, with museums flanking us on either side. American History on our left, Natural History on our right. I was always in awe of the Smithsonians. Amazing achievements at no cost to the public. It made me proud to be an educator, seeing these enormous buildings dedicated to educating and delighting people.

  As we moved up toward the Environmental Protection Agency and the IRS building, I thought I saw movement. The Colonel slowed the Jeep.

  “To the left. In front of the EPA, in those arches,” I said. There are archways in front of the Environmental Protection Agency building. It was a great place to hide people—or former people.

  “There! Behind the tree. Two of them,” I yelled. The Colonel nodded.

  “Good eye, Eddie,” he said. “Echo One, this is Eagle One. We have spotted two potential targets in front of the EPA building off of 12th. Do you copy?”

  “Eagle One, this is Echo One. Copy loud and clear. En route to your location, over.”

  We watched the two mutates move in and out of the arches aimlessly. Then suddenly they turned to look over their shoulders, turned forward again, and began running fast.

  “Something spooked them. They’ve seen us,” said the Colonel.

  “But shouldn’t they be running towards us?” I asked. “Anytime I’ve seen one, it’s been running towards me. I don’t think they do see us.”

  “Then why are they suddenly running?” asked Tommy. And then we saw the answer. Easing out of the shadows behind one of the arches was one of the leaders. It was a male, standing upright, and it was making strange noises and pointing directly at us. The lower mutates weren’t able to recognize a threat, but their leader was.

  “Echo One, I need you here pronto. We now have three, I repeat, three targets. One is a prime target, over,” the Colonel said.

  “Eagle One, ETA is thirty seconds, over.”

  Then I heard the roaring of an engine and what I can only describe as a convertible Humvie came flying up 12th street beside us. Two soldiers were standing up, braced on overhead bars that encircled the vehicle.

  “I’ll take the leader, you go for one or both of the lower mutates to the right,” one soldier said.

  “Gotcha,” the other answered. They both followed their quarry with the scope of the tranquilizer rifle and fired. Two direct hits. The middle mutate that was not shot at then turned, suddenly unable to decide what it should do. It roared and began charging the Humvie.

  “Reload fast,” the first soldier said. The second soldier fumbled with his tranquilizer gun and dart case, frantically trying to reload as the mutate sprinted like a baboon towards the car.

  “You got it?” the first soldier asked. “Steve, do you have this?” he asked again as the mutate closed the distance. The second soldier fumbled with the gun a little more, having problems loading the dart. “Shit,” he said.

  In a flash, the Colonel reached down at his side, pulled a pistol out of his shoulder harness, pointed it at the charging mutate and fired off three quick rounds. All three hit, but the third was a head shot and the mutate dropped to the ground in a forward skid.

  “Thanks, Colonel,” said the second soldier. “That was close.”

  “Medic One, this is Echo One. We are on 12th Street in front of the EPA, ready to bag and tag two targets. Do you copy?”

  “Medic One, copy. We are en route, over.”

  “Nicely done, lads,” said the Colonel. “Good cooperation all the way. This was quicker and easier than expected, and now we have two test subjects.”

  We waited there for about ten minutes as the medic began to restrain and prepare the mutates for transport back to the Pentagon. All of the commotion must have roused some interest, because I thought that I saw the doors of the EPA start to move. I watched for a moment, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me. The doors were definitely moving from inside.

  “Colonel, heads up. I see movement inside the building. It looks like someone’s trying to come out,” I said.

  “Inside?” he said. “That’s rare. We don’t usually see them inside unless they’re fleeing, and they don’t flee very often.”

  And then I saw people start to file out of the building one by one.

  “Is it safe? Can we be outside? Is it over?” the first people said. Some of the Echo and Medic Units looked confused and turned towards us. The Colonel wasn’t expecting this either. And then, as the first dozen or so people started to come out of the building, I saw them. Their expression was one of relief, wonder, awe, and surprise. I knew instantly that these people had been isolated inside a bomb shelter inside the building since last week. They must have gotten curious as to what the outside world offered, unable to know for certain in the shelter. And now, now they were looking at people in HAZMAT suits in military vehicles wrapping strangely colored creatures for transport. I could read their thoughts even from across the street. I know what you’re thinking: how can I have surmised so much back story from witnessing just a couple of minutes of people moving through a doorway? The answer was simple.

  It was my parents.

  CHAPTER 23

  “The day has finally arrived,” said Father Joe. “We have had some challenges, some hurdles, and some mountains, but thanks to everyone’s help, today we unveil an entirely new church in an entirely new town in an entirely new country!”

  Forty to fifty people assembled in the Hunter’s Run cafeteria all clapped and whistled.

  “All that’s left now is to move everything outdoors and wait for the people to come,” said
Wes Kent.

  “Indeed, Wes. Can you be in charge of that?” asked Father Joe.

  “Why of course,” said Wes. “John, Billy, can you and your lovely spouses begin wheeling those carts down the hall? There is a Gator waiting just outside to help you take everything to the tables and concession stand, which are both already set up.”

  “Our pleasure Mr. Boss man,” said John Segen, slapping Wes on the back.

  “Lou,” said Father Joe, “Your job is to make sure the PA system is ready to go, along with the music. Is the stage set up in the middle of the field?”

  “Just like you ordered, Padre,” said Lou.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” said Father Joe. “Pablo, would you like to be a greeter?”

  “Sí Padre, that will be fine,” said Pablo.

  “I’m sorry that things have become awkward between us, mi amigo,” said Father Joe.

  “No, it is not your fault. You proceeded as you should have. I was concerned only with Oleg’s anger, but he explained himself and apologized, so I am satisfied,” said Pablo.

  “Has anyone seen Oleg?” asked Father Joe. “I have not seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Nor I, Padre. Perhaps he was late at the police station last night. But I’m sure he will be here for the big event today, not to worry,” said Pablo.

  “That sounds right. I’m sure that’s it. Thank you, Pablo,” said Father Joe.

  “De nada,” said Pablo.

  Robin Eaves, Melanie Richmond, and Jenny Custis all helped load the food onto the cart and joined the Segens and the James on their way to the field. The parking lot was full of people who had walked there, and a surprising number of cars were filing in as well. Many people’s cars had been unable to start due to the EMP that exploded with some of the bombings, but some were spared, and others were able to be recharged and started up again. The stadium was beginning to fill up, and the gorgeous weather seemed tailor-made for such a day.

  It’s all coming together, thought Father Joe to himself. But I would feel better if Oleg were here.

  Wes Kent had taken the microphone from up in the press box and was directing people towards this thing or that thing, and giving informal welcomes as they walked in. He liked hearing his voice boom across the field, and enough people were showing up that the visiting team stands had to be utilized as well. Smells came from the concession stand. Food was for sale, as well as trinkets and shirts sold by the church. A baked goods table was surrounded by people, who were buying cakes, pies, cookies and homemade bread. An overall ambience of happiness was everywhere, and the Church of the Many Blessings was proud to be the creator of it.

  “Lookin’ good Father Joe!” yelled John Segen from his spot inside the concession stand. Segen was glad-handing everyone who walked by as if he were running for the state Senate. Several people heard John and started clapping as they saw Father Joseph Clarque stroll into the stadium. The applause caught on, and before long, it rose into the stands, and then across the field. The clapping somehow found a way to go in unison. Someone began to shout Fa-ther-Joe! Fa-ther-Joe! Within fifteen seconds, the entire stadium was on its feet, clapping in unison, and Father Joseph Clarque grinned a wide grin, opened his arms, and walked onto the raised platform at the center of the field.

  He waited nearly an entire minute for the standing ovation to die down. He did nothing to quell it, lower it, or dissuade it in any way. Total strangers found themselves cheering for a man they had never met, swept away by the high emotions, beautiful day, and wonderful smells. Finally, as the clapping eased its way to a murmur. Father Joe held up his right hand and placed the microphone up to his mouth.

  “Welcome, everyone, to a new day! How fitting is it that God has seen fit to bless this weather for such an auspicious occasion. I’d like take credit for it—but I’m afraid the credit is His. And while I am here to speak a little about our Heavenly Father, I am truly here to talk about you. All of you. We are here today, because we are survivors. That’s right—survivors. You need not feel guilty, as I know some of you must. Not everyone was spared from the horror wrought by our enemies last week. I know many of you lost loved ones to that horror, and I pray for them and for you every night. It might not be politic to say, but for whatever reason, only He knows—God has seen fit to make us His chosen people. We are the ones who will pave the way to a new church, a new town, a new state, and a new country.

  “Now I know that some of you are skeptical. You’ll say to yourselves, ‘sure, that preacher is one slick talker, but let’s be serious. He can’t mean what he says.’ But that’s where you’re wrong. Think, my brothers and sisters—most of our state is gone. Much of it speaks of death rates in the 90th percentile or higher. Marshall Law has been declared in dozens of cities and towns in Maryland. But not us. Not us. We survive, and as haughty and arrogant as it may sound, I am proud to be one of God’s chosen to begin again. Death must come before rebirth. So it was with our Savior Jesus Christ, so will it be now. Those loved ones we lost had to die, so that rebirth could take place. Righteous rebirth.

  We have the unprecedented opportunity to make the world what we want it to be with minimum friction, minimum resistance, minimum push-back. We need only survive. Not possible you say? Unlikely you say? Unprecedented you say? I say no. Our own pilgrims did it in 1620. They made this land what they wanted, and all they had to do was survive. John Smith’s Jamestown couldn’t do it. The Roanoke Island colony couldn’t do it. The Spaniards couldn’t do it. But our people, the Anglican Puritans, they did it. They left us a legacy. A proud legacy of righteousness. And what did we do with it? We urinated on it. We strayed. We made ourselves God, and we re-wrote his word to suit our weaknesses, our lusts, our base desires. And then we arrogantly challenged anyone who would point out how we had bastardized His word.

  I know that by now, it must sound like I’m judging you. I’m not. Jesus said to love your enemies, so how could I not love you—my flock? But I am here to instruct you, to mold you, to help you see the light. I won’t cast you out if you choose to close your eyes. You’ll do that to yourself. You are welcome here. You are needed here. You are loved here. And I love you too much to lie to you. Here, in the town of Emmitsburg, I intend to begin again. I propose we add the word ‘New’ to the title, for this will not be the Emmitsburg of old. It must be like the Pilgrims once again. This town will now be known as New Plymouth. It’s name will send a message to everyone that they, too, can begin anew in the image of God, the image He wants us to project.

  As bombs dropped over Baltimore—one of the largest dens of corruption and pestilence in this world—I knew. As bombs dropped over Annapolis—one of the largest dens of greed and avarice in this state, I knew. As bombs dropped over Columbia—the largest den of arrogance and hypocrisy in this country—I knew. New Plymouth was coming. New Plymouth would herald a new era. New Plymouth would do what none of our leaders were able to do, despite their claims—it will make America great again. But to do so, we must go back, way back, all the way back to a time when every single Pilgrim was part of a greater community, a greater town, a greater mission. Everyone helped, everyone pitched in, everyone had a job. I want that for you, my brethren. I will lead you to the Promised Land in ways that no one has been able to before, in the ashes of the old and into the birth of the new.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Father Joe paused, and a great banner unfurled from the stadium as a new flag was being hoisted into the gentle breeze. Its colors were bright, its vibrancy captured the entire stadium. The banners and flags read the name of the new city—New Plymouth—and the cross was emblazoned on it as well. The crowd was hushed for a moment as the two symbols were raised, then a cacophonous cheer roared above the stadium.

  “Brothers and sisters, this is it. This is the beginning. At the end of the stadium outside the gates are new road signs bearing our town’s new name. We will meet here regularly on days like this to discuss our new world’s agenda. But for now, go and tear down the
name of the old town mired in sin and myopia and replace it with the purer one I have made for you. You are the survivors—you are New Plymouth!”

  With that, the crowd jumped and screamed and yelled and clapped, then a large swath of them made their ways out of the stadium into the town. Within sight several could be seen ripping down old signs with the name Emmitsburg on them. Others lay the new signs against the old posts, but in a mob there is very little room for reason or forethought. The crowd ran into town with their souls on fire and hope in their eyes. They just weren’t really sure why. And as they ran out to go do who knows what, a small contingent of stragglers who stayed behind looked nervously at the crowd as it left.

  Among them were two Hispanics, an Asian, and two African-Americans. A white girl with a gay pride shirt was behind them, and two more Caucasians straggled even farther. One of the African-American girls walked up to Father Joe with a look of concern on her face.

  “Excuse me sir. Uh, Father Joe, sir?”

  “Yes my child,” he answered with a smug grin.

  “Um, I’m not sure I heard you right just now. Did you say that we were all descended from Anglicans?”

  “Well, not all of us, of course,” he answered.

  “But this new church, this town—it’s gotta be like that? Like the Pilgrims? White Anglicans?” she asked.

  “It’s what God wants, my child. It’s not my rule. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “So, what happens to people who look like us?” she asked.

  “I’m sure you can find another place where you’d be happier, my dear,” Father Joe said.

  “But Emmitsburg is my home,” she said with some vehemence.

  “Emmitsburg is no more, my dear. You’re in New Plymouth now. And judging by that crowd, you might want to think about an exit strategy, or they might end up making you our first examples of purification,” Father Joe said.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Ugggh,” said Mark Longaberger, sitting up from a slightly leaning position in an uncomfortable chair in the living room of the international students’ suite. “Why did I sleep here?” he said, holding his neck.