First Weeks After

by Jay Vielle

  “What do you mean? They drove over them already. Nothing happened,” Estela said.

  “Tires don’t always just pop. Sometimes it takes a while for the puncture to work. The more they drive, the more they bounce, the more likely it will be that any nail they picked up does a bit more damage,” Mark said.

  “Exactly,” Maureen agreed. “You’re growing on me.”

  Al crossed the Monocacy River back into Frederick County and saw the turn for Simmons Road. Going against his instinct, he passed it and picked up speed quickly. The Jeep sped up also trying not to let Al get to far ahead of them. Then he took a hard, jostling left without the blinker onto Tom’s Creek Church Road. Maureen and Estela slammed into the window and door, while Mark slid into Morgan, crushing her.

  “Sorry,” Al said.

  “Sorry,” Mark said.

  “Jesus,” Maureen said.

  But it worked. The Jeep sailed right past them about a tenth of a mile on Route 140. John Segen cursed and slammed on his brakes. He hit reverse and backed up quickly, then bumped across a ditch to get to the road to follow Al on. Those two motions were just what the doctor ordered in terms of Maureen’s James Bond plan. The Jeep sped up to try and make up ground. Then, in the rear-view mirror, Al saw dust flying as the Jeep veered to the driver’s side of the road and partially into a field. The front tire had gone flat.

  “Damn it!” John Segen said. “Goddamn tire!”

  “Is it flat?” asked Wes.

  “As a goddamn pancake,” John said.

  “Do you have a spare?” asked Wes.

  “Yeah, but it’s underneath and will take a while to get to. We’ve lost them,” he said.

  “We know who they’re with, what they’re driving, and where they were headed,” said Wes. “We know plenty more than we did. I’ll let Father Joe know.”

  Al and all four passengers cheered wildly when they saw the Jeep veer into the field and come to a stop. Al grinned widely and took a right back onto Simmons Road towards Emmitsburg. Eventually, Simmons turned into Keysville Road, where Kristen Faust awaited them. Kristen Faust was Maureen’s best friend in the world. They boy hailed from Long Island, New York. Both went to college together at Scranton, both were recruited by Frederick County, Maryland Public Schools, and both took jobs at Hunter’s Run the first year it opened. They had been each other’s maids of honor, they had watched their jobs blossom and their homes grow, and they had watched each other’s marriages falter.

  Kristen Faust was Hunter’s Run’s librarian. She was smallish, dark-haired, and in her early forties. She lived on a big farm that was owned by her husband, Mitchell. Mitchell Faust had inherited a large family farm out in the country on Keysville Road. The farm had three farmhouses on it. The main house had been Mitchell’s parents. The secondary house, originally built for a full-time caretaker, was the one that Mitchell and Kristen had moved into twenty years ago. There was actually a third house on the property that a farmhand once had rented that now lay empty.

  The Fausts’ daughter, Natalie, attended Hunter’s Run as a freshman. About fifteen years ago, things had started to sour in the Faust household. Five awkward years of estrangement and growing apart ensued, and then a point of no return had arrived—perhaps not so ironically, just after Maureen’s marriage had dissolved with her Dominican baseball player. Mitchell’s parents had gotten old and frail of health, so he moved back into the house he had grown up in, less than a hundred yards away from where his estranged wife and daughter lived. It was this awkward situation that Maureen had sought out in order to hide everyone from their pursuers.

  Al pulled the car up and Maureen had hopped out even before it came to a complete stop.

  “Hey Girl!” Kristen said. “What brings you here? And who all is in that car?”

  “Long and insane story. Short version—we are being pursued by some bad people. Can we hide out here for a bid?” Maureen said.

  “You know you don’t even have to ask. Al can put the car in the big shed behind the house and pull the door shut so nobody can see it,” Kristen said.

  “Is the guest house still uninhabited?” Maureen asked.

  “It is. Let’s get you all settled in it. Hi,” Kristen said to Morgan and Estela. “I’m Kristen. Welcome.”

  Estela and Morgan introduced themselves.

  “Mark Longaberger? What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Like Maureen said, it’s a long and really insane story. I’m happy to tell it. Do you have anything to drink? I’m parched.”

  “Sure. Natalie,” Kristen yelled. “Grab a twelve pack of sodas from the barn fridge and bring them over to the guest house, will you?”

  Al parked the car in the shed and pulled the enormous door shut, then walked into the guest house. Everyone was seated in the kitchen around a big country table. Kristen then gave Maureen an enormous hug, closed her eyes and patted her friend’s back.

  “So how is it living in Awkwardville?” said Maureen.

  “Not that bad. Having your own house helps, and being close to Mitch makes it easy on Nat. It could be worse. At least right now, with this bombing stuff going on, I don’t have to worry about boyfriends showing up on my doorstep.”

  “Not yet at least. Stay positive,” joked Maureen.

  “I’m so glad to see you. Last I heard you’d just made it back from Virginia with some crazy stories about some kind of mutated people, then you decided to shack up with Bill Nye the science guy here,” Kristen said.

  “Hey,” said Al. “I’m much cuter than Bill Nye.”

  “Okay, let me catch you up from the beginning,” Maureen said. “From the day we were first stuck in the school.”

  Maureen talked about the first days after the bombing, how Jake Fisher had led everyone in the survival effort and had defended the school from invaders. She told them how another faction within the school had effectively driven her, Al, Eddie Reyes and Jake Fisher out, and how Jake had decided to go on a quest to find his sons at college and everyone had joined him. She mentioned how they rescued Wendy and the Colonel from mutates at Fort Detrick, then found both Fisher boys at their colleges in Southwestern Virginia. She told them about their abduction by a town taken over by criminals in Front Royal, Virginia on their way to Washington, and about how they escaped that town only to be halted by a military roadblock outside Marshall. She told them of their return home and gave a detailed account of Father Joe’s town takeover and Oleg’s attempted—and thwarted murder attempt. Finally, she told of the subsequent sleuthing of how and why Father Joe’s alignment with Russians had led them ultimately to Kristen’s farm.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” said Kristen. “That is un-fucking-believable! You know, Mitchell actually went to that town rally and told me about the whole New Plymouth thing and how cool it was.”

  “New Plymouth?” Mark said.

  “Yeah. Father Joe has singlehandedly decided to change the name of the town to New Plymouth, after the fucking Pilgrims, because they were White Europeans and righteous.”

  “A fucking cult is what they were,” said Maureen. “They’re the ones who gave us the Salem witch trials, remember?”

  “This, all of this, is just incredible. You all need to lay low for now, and you can do it here. Nobody knows you’re here. Mitch is going to be fertilizing over the next few weeks and will barely be at home.”

  “I’m shocked that he’s farming now, after the whole bombing thing,” Maureen said.

  “He said it’s coming no matter what, and it will be even more vital to do it now that the country is at war and will need food stores. The government will buy it if nobody else does,” Kristen said.

  “Yeah, in a country with no president? God knows what’s going to happen,” Maureen said.

  “You haven’t heard? The President appeared. He gave a short, defiant speech on television and said that we are planning a big retaliation for the bombings last week. He’s alive. But he didn’t say where he was,” Kristen said.
<
br />   “Oh joy,” said Maureen. “If you had told me he’d died in the first bombings, I’d have told you we have a chance to win. But now that he’s alive, we’re doomed. Not a fan.”

  “I hear you, but you don’t fit in here,” said Kristen.

  “Neither of us ever did. Is Nat okay?” asked Maureen.

  “Nat’s just fine,” said Kristen’s daughter, coming in on cue with cold sodas. She handed one to every person there and put the rest in the refrigerator.

  “Oh, thank God,” said Mark, ripping his open and guzzling it.

  “Thank you so much,” said Morgan.

  “Gracias,” said Estela.

  “Alright, Mo,” said Kristen. “I’ll hide you guys out here for now. But have you told anyone else about this plot?”

  “We told Jake Fisher, and Eddie Reyes, and the Colonel. They said that they were going to send reinforcements soon, and to hold tight. Eddie’s going to contact me when they get here.”

  “Alright. Well in that case, welcome everybody. If you need anything, just ask,” said Kristen.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Just ask,” Jake repeated. “That’s the text you got back?”

  “Yup,” I said. “I texted him what you told me to say. ‘Col. Ray Cannaveral recommended you for a job / mission. He said you were perfect for it, and he told me to give you a codeword: Blackbird’.”

  “And his answer back to that was ‘just ask’? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jake said. “Text him back—how do I convey particulars of the job?”

  I did as Jake asked and waited all of about seven seconds before getting a reply.

  “Aren’t you doing that now?” I said to Jake.

  “What?” said Jake.

  “That’s what it says. He’s asking you ‘aren’t you doing that now?’ He does have a point,” I said.

  “Shut up,” said Jake. “Tell him that the job is in Emmitsburg and we are on the way there now. Where and when does he want to meet?” I started texting that to our new mystery man, Josh Rimone. Again, about seven seconds went by after I sent it to wait for his reply.

  “Is Chubby’s open?”

  “What?” Jake asked.

  “He wants to know if Chubby’s is open. Chubby’s Barbecue. You know, at the intersection there. It’s awesome,” I said.

  “Tell him yes. Tell him that Emmitsburg was mostly spared major damage from the bombings, and that initially things looked a little chaotic, but after a week some semblance of normalcy has begun to take hold, and certain businesses are returning,” said Jake.

  “Chubby’s Barbecue. Lunchtime. On you.”

  “What? Did you text him what I said?” Jake asked.

  “No. He answered back long before I could type your inauguration speech. He said we’re to meet him at Chubby’s, I’m guessing at noon, and we are paying for his lunch.”

  “Huh,” said Jake.

  “Huh indeed,” I said. “I like this guy already. He knows good spots to eat, and he doesn’t wait around for you to finish your bullshit.” Tommy and Vinny smiled at that.

  ------------------- ------------------------- ----------------------

  About an hour later we were pulling into Emmitsburg. We had come up the DC Beltway to Frederick, then taken route 15 north towards Gettysburg. It was a road we were getting used to traveling these past two weeks. Chubby’s was right on Route 15, close to where it intersected with two other byways, Old Frederick Road and Keysville Road. It was an iconic kind of place for a small town, and while I do not consider myself a barbecue fanatic, it was the best I’d ever had.

  When we pulled up, there was only one car in the lot. It was backed off the road, facing the entrance, so the driver could see anyone coming from just about every direction. It was an old 1970’s white Camaro with black racing stripes matching the black vinyl roofing. It had giant racing tires on the back that were very wide and almost completely slick. The hubcaps shone in the sun like a knight’s armor. In the driver’s seat was a shadow that was hard to make out, but I was almost sure I saw a cowboy hat. This guy was already impressing me.

  He saw us drive in and look somewhat confused. He hopped out of the car with a big smile on his face and an even bigger chaw of chewing tobacco, which he spat onto the siding of Chubby’s accidentally. He winced at his own mistake, made a face and walked towards us.

  “Blackbird?” he said. Jake nodded carefully. And then I got a good look at him.

  He was tiny. About 5’6” and skinny. He was wearing a long underwear top that was too small for him—which means it was probably a kid’s size. The sleeves came up to his forearms, but the neck had been pulled and stretched down below his collarbone revealing a large star of David necklace. He had on jeans and big, old brown cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat. And he was completely hairless. Not just bald—because he was that too—but hairless. Nothing on his forearms, his chest, his face—not even eyebrows. What the fuck was I looking at?

  “Josh Rimone?” asked Jake.

  “Sure,” he said. “That’ll work.”

  “That’ll work?” Jake said.

  “For a name. Josh Rimone. That’ll work,” he said.

  “Isn’t that your name?” I asked.

  “It’ll work. Like I said,” he added, reaching out his hand. Jake, a confused look on his face, took the man’s hand and shook it.

  “Who’s the fairy?” he asked. My mouth dropped.

  “I think he means you, Eddie,” Jake said, now smiling.

  “Eddie. Cool. Nice to meet you,” Josh said. “So that would make you Jake.”

  “Yeah, I’m Jake. I don’t remember telling you that yet, though,” Jake said.

  “Those your boys over there?” Josh said. “Vinny and Tommy, right?”

  “Yeah. Um, where’d you get all of that from?” Jake said.

  “It’s part of what I do,” said Josh. “Oh, and sorry Eddie. I knew who you were too. I just wanted to work in a homophobic reference.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for that,” I said. “We fairies really dig that kind of thing.”

  “So, I understand you’ve got a potential Russian cell in town targeting civilians who may or may not have some dirt on them--which includes knowing that they’re here in the first place, yes?” said Josh.

  “That’s right,” said Jake.

  “Which all of us also now know,” said Josh.

  “Also right,” said Jake.

  “Which means everybody here is in deep shit unless otherwise rectified,” said Josh.

  “Uh-huh,” said Jake.

  “Well shit, brothers, here we are already with incentive for success!” he said with a smile, putting his arms around both of our shoulders.

  “What is it exactly that you do?” asked Jake.

  “This. I do this. This is my specialty. Getting people out of deep shit. Especially deep Russian shit. So whaddaya say Eddie here goes in and picks up my order. Our order, really. I took the trouble to order for you. You guys okay with Pit Beef? I can’t eat pork. And we’ll need a place to meet to figure all this shit out. I took the liberty of breaking into that house for sale down the street there—see that one? With the Remax sign on it? It’s partly furnished and has a nice big kitchen island to draw maps and shit on. Meet you there in like two minutes,” Josh said.

  He got in his car and fiddled with something in the center. I looked at Jake with complete incredulity.

  “Who the fuck is this guy?” I asked. “I mean, seriously. Who the fuck is this guy?”

  “Josh Rimone,” said Jake. “Josh Rimone will do. Now go get our fucking lunch, Eddie,” Jake laughed and started walking towards the Humvie. I shrugged, shook my head and started to walk into Chubby’s when Josh leaned out his window and called me.

  “Eddie? Can you come here a minute? I need a hand with something. Get in the passenger’s side,” Josh said.

  I pulled open the heavy, ancient door to the Camaro and kneeled on the passenger seat with my left leg.

  “What i
s it?” I asked.

  “Would you blow into that breathalyzer for me? The car won’t start otherwise,” he said. I looked at him open mouthed for a moment. He just smiled back with his black cowboy hat sinking down his bald head into his eyes. I cringed a little, then blew into the breathalyzer, and after a buzzing sound, the engine roared to life, sounding like a monster truck. It was so loud I actually jumped from being startled.

  “Thanks! Oh, and get me a few extra sauce packets, wouldja?” he said. I nodded back.

  I went in, paid Chubby for the barbecue with cash that Jake had given me, and carried it out to the car. We drove into the broken-into-for-sale-house, and I handed everybody what Josh had ordered for them. It was actually as good as I remembered it. Then Josh pulled out a map of Frederick County, Maryland and flattened it out with his hand. He stared at it for a moment, then started nodding.

  “This shit’s probably gonna take a few months,” he said.

  NEXT: FIRST MONTHS AFTER Book Three in the Cataclysm Series

  Join our heroes--Jake, Tommy, and Vinny Fisher, their new comrade Josh Rimone, and our narrator Eduardo Reyes-- as they endeavor to safeguard Estela, Morgan, and Mark; protect Al, Maureen, and Kristen; outwit Father Joseph Clarque and his New Plymouth cronies; and somehow defend themselves from a Russian military cell that has infiltrated the United States as World War 3 goes into its next gear. Look for the answers in First Months After—Book 3 of the Cataclysm Series.

  THANK YOU to the many individuals who inspired characters and to whom I have gone for information, including Colonel (Retired) Ray Naworol, CC Fausnet, and the many friends who have endured my asking for proof reading, mild criticism and advice. I could not have done it without you.

  IN MEMORIAM—to my dear friend Kurt Eglseder, who told me years ago when I was searching for some direction in life: “You need to write.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR J.V. Lowe is a career educator and coach. For thirty years he has taught English and Spanish and coached and officiated wrestling at both the high school and college levels, and is a member of the National Wrestling Hall of Fame. He has written both detective and science fiction and well as published non-fiction articles. He and his family live in rural northern Maryland.