The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  Rhodes grunted. “How many of the affected US citizens have been apprehended?”

  “We’re still gathering information, but it would appear to be a minority. A certain number of individuals have evaded apprehension. Perhaps 15 percent are hospitalized or in custody, most of them children. The rest have either been killed or committed suicide rather than face capture.”

  “And there’s no indication that these people are organized?”

  “The only connection between a man who wiped out his family in Boise and a woman who killed her coworkers in Toronto is that they observed a birthday today—and reportedly spoke in gibberish at the time of their breakdown.”

  “If each person afflicted with this Omega Disorder committed at least one murder—”

  “—then we’re looking at one million six hundred thousand deaths in the US. When you factor in the casualties from related accidents and mass shootings, it’s closer to two million.”

  “Good God almighty.” Rhodes studied the men and women before him, their faces highlighted by the red and green glare of lights glowing on electronic wall maps. “Do we have any new information of value?”

  Stan McDonald, Director of the CIA, shifted in his seat. “Based on a sampling of one hundred cases, we believe that those afflicted became disordered not just on their birthday but at the time of their birth.”

  Rhodes shook his head. “How is that possible? It defies rationality.”

  No one answered.

  “What are we facing if this Omega Disorder goes into remission on the East Coast at midnight and in every other time zone accordingly?”

  Stoker tapped his pen on his pad. “At the very least, we’ll have two million dead citizens in the US and nineteen million around the world.”

  “And the worst-case scenario?”

  “On day two everyone born on January 1 will either be dead or will remain in a psychotic state and everyone born on January 2 will join them. If the Omega Disorder continues to strike people every day, in 365 days no one will be left.”

  “No infants have been affected,” Secretary of Social Services Natalie Trundy said. “The youngest cases reported involved one-year-olds.”

  Rhodes pictured his daughters, Julia, age eight, and Sophie, age six. “What kind of damage can a one-year-old do?”

  “Very little, except to himself. Add grieving parents to the list of victims. The traumatic effects of today will continue for a long time to come if we survive this. If we don’t, who will take care of these babies and those born between now and December 31?”

  Rhodes looked at the digital clock for the East Coast on the glowing map of the United States, which was divided into time zones. “Let’s all turn to the map. The witching hour is here.”

  McDonald addressed the room. “We’ve wired the map so that all the 911 calls in the country will be acknowledged in close to real time.”

  The digital clock ticked away the seconds to midnight and January 2.

  Nothing happened.

  O’Rourke grinned at Rhodes, who raised one hand for caution.

  A light flared in New York City. Another flared in Boston. And in Washington, D.C. Florida. One flare after another. Soon the entire eastern coast had lit up.

  Rhodes got to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that the history of mankind is written before us. Let’s lead him out with as much dignity and grace as possible. It’s going to be a hell of a year.”

  Half an hour later, Rhodes took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. “I want an emergency committee formed to analyze every conceivable aspect of this situation. Include religious scholars, scientists, mathematicians—anyone who can contribute ideas of value. That means leave the politicians out of the equation.” He turned to Nicholas Hammond, the secretary of defense. “Make plans to bring the troops home.”

  Hammond, a former four-star general, said, “Which troops, Mr. President?”

  “All of them, except those engaged in humanitarian efforts.”

  “Forgive me but I think you’re being hasty.”

  “That’s an order. If we’re to operate on the theory that mankind has only one year left, those men and women deserve to spend it on home soil, where they can see their families. We’re on the cusp of fighting a war unlike any that’s ever been fought before, and the enemy is us. We can’t fight that war without soldiers.”

  “But our overseas interests . . .”

  “You mean oil? I think we have enough oil to last a year, don’t you?”

  “There are other considerations . . . countries with nuclear weapons . . .”

  “We need to preserve our society from within. The police can’t do that alone. The other nations of the world—friends and foes—will have to determine their own courses of action. We have to use all our resources to protect our citizens first and their overseas interests second.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Rhodes returned to Stoker. “Every law enforcement and government agency that tracks the names, addresses, social security numbers, and birth dates of US citizens needs to cooperate in identifying people who are possible threats. Theoretically, everyone is a sleeper agent in waiting. We need a system to deal with them before they turn against us.”

  “What then? Do we imprison them? Hospitalize them? Or euthanize them?”

  “You’ll have the chance to make your recommendations, but we have to do something. My birthday is on July 7. I’ve always celebrated it on July Fourth; I like to pretend the fireworks are for me. Under our worst-case scenario, this Independence Day could be particularly poignant, because it will be the last one. I have to be prepared to step down.”

  Heads turned to O’Rourke, Rhodes’s senior by a decade and a half.

  “Mr. Vice President, I believe your birthday is in March?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. I’ve always chosen to believe that St. Paddy’s Day was held in my honor.”

  Muted laughter.

  “I’m sorry, Chris.” Rhodes turned to Donna. “Madame Secretary, your birthday isn’t until . . .”

  “November 14,” she said.

  “If it becomes necessary, I’ll appoint you my new vice president, which means you may have to carry the mantle of leadership of the free world for four months.”

  Donna stared at Rhodes for a moment before answering. “Thank you for your confidence.”

  “Citizens with imminent birthdays will have to be removed from all positions that entail a responsibility for human life: transportation, health care, nuclear management, military installations, fire management, law enforcement—hell, even people who flip burgers.”

  “You’re talking about restructuring our entire way of life.”

  “Yes, I am—to preserve our way of life for as long as possible. I don’t envy those who will still be here on December 31.”

  Twelve

  January 2

  Yawning, Weizak rose from his desk. Half a dozen men and women still worked at their desks, and another half dozen slept facedown on their desks. As Weizak crossed the bull pen, he saw legs protruding beneath other desks.

  He stopped at the windows and gazed at the view. Fires flickered around the city, casting dense black smoke into the air. Four helicopters patrolled the sky in the immediate area, circling the Freedom Tower and sweeping the streets with their spotlights. A caravan of six police cars, followed by an armored SWAT vehicle, rolled past the square. Two blocks away, a similar police caravan traveled a perpendicular route, moving uptown.

  “It gives you chills, doesn’t it?” Rosen stood beside him, coffee in hand.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “There’s never been anything like it. Thank God we’ve still got power; Boston is a mess.”

  “The newswire won’t stop.”

  “I have a feeling it’s not going to. The world’s turned a corner. You aren’t going home, are you?”

  Weizak shook his head. “I brought my toothbrush and a ch
ange of clothes.”

  “Good man. I’ve read all your pieces—good work, clean and concise.”

  “I wish I could do some legwork to give more perspective.”

  “There’s no time for that now. Just report the news. Leave the analysis to people who are paid to do that.”

  Wondering if he had overstepped his boundaries, Weizak nodded.

  Rosen clasped his shoulder. “Get some sleep.”

  After Rosen had returned to his office, Weizak went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Then he descended the spiral staircase to the obituary department, where Ruth slept on a cot with a worn blanket pulled over her. Byrne stood at a table, reviewing newswire reports, flanked by a young man and a young woman.

  “Hail the conquering hero,” Byrne said, looking up. “Meet our new interns, Wes and Robin—soon to be full-fledged obituary compilers.”

  Weizak nodded to the new recruits. “Welcome to the madhouse.”

  “Better in here than out there,” Wes said.

  “Did you come to give us a hand?” Byrne said.

  “No, I thought I’d find a quiet place to sleep. I didn’t know you were conducting basic training.”

  Byrne gestured at Weizak’s old desk. “Make yourself comfortable if you want. Robin can share a cubicle with Wes.”

  “That’s okay. I think I’ll lie down in the photo archive. It’s all yours, Robin.”

  “Good night,” Robin said.

  Weizak wandered down the darkened aisles of the photo archive containing wooden filing cabinets topped by deteriorating cardboard boxes. He found a spot where Byrne’s voice was muted and lay down and closed his eyes. As he drifted off he wondered what had happened to the man on the roof of the building across the street from his apartment.

  President Rhodes looked up from his desk as Vice President O’Rourke entered the Oval Office. Stoker rose from his seat, a sign of respect. Snow fell outside the White House, and the Good Morning America hosts droned on the TV.

  “Good morning.” O’Rourke clapped Stoker on the shoulder, indicating he should sit again.

  Stoker waited for O’Rourke to sit opposite the president first.

  “I hope you slept better than I did, but somehow I doubt that’s the case,” O’Rourke said.

  “I caught a few hours,” Rhodes said. He had waited until morning to brief Cynthia, the First Lady, on what they had learned about the violence turning the world upside down.

  O’Rourke crossed his legs. “I take it you’re tracking the homicide figures?”

  Rhodes nodded. “It was another horrible night for the world, nearly identical to the night before.”

  “I must have run over this thing in my head a thousand times. Your closing words in the Situation Room made me proud to be part of this administration. Thank you for your leadership. The country’s better for it. Hopefully, I can now provide you with a smidgen of the inspiration you’ve given me.” O’Rourke seemed calm and relaxed, a model of cool under fire.

  “Thank you for the compliments. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. I know the vice president can sometimes be a burden to a commander in chief, especially a vice president who’s stepping down.” O’Rourke’s sunny disposition puzzled Rhodes.

  “Are you upset about my decision to appoint Donna as your successor?”

  “Not at all. Donna and I have had our squabbles, but she’s certainly capable of doing what I do. Whether or not she can do what you do is another question.”

  Rhodes set his pen on the desk and sat back. “Thank you for saying so.”

  “Did I ever tell you about my sister Lois?”

  Rhodes glanced at Stoker for help. “The schoolteacher?”

  “She was born on February 29—leap-year day. Technically, she’s only seventeen years old, not sixty-eight. It’s been a source of consternation for her during her whole life: when she applied for her driver’s license, marriage license, and social security benefits. Having a senator for a brother proved beneficial on that last one.”

  Rhodes tried hard to control any reaction that would unmask his impatience with O’Rourke’s cornpone stories about growing up in Iowa.

  “Lois celebrated her seventeenth birthday last year, which means she isn’t due for another for three years. If this Omega Disorder really follows the man-made calendar, she won’t die in two months; God willing, she’ll have at least three more years.”

  Rhodes’s pulse beat faster, and he glanced at Stoker, who seemed impressed.

  O’Rourke sat forward. “I’ve done the math: one-quarter of 1/365th of the population equals 4,795,000 people globally, or 211,000 in the United States, who could conceivably survive this catastrophe. I’m talking about adults who can raise infants and teach them our way of life, preserving the American spirit.”

  Rhodes massaged his chin. “February 29 . . .”

  “That’s almost two months away,” Stoker said.

  “No, March 1 is two months away,” O’Rourke said. “February 29 is three years away; that’s the point. If March 1 rolls around and Lois is still herself, I’ll be a happy man.”

  “If you’re right,” Stoker said, “there’s no guaranteeing that Lois won’t turn in three years. And it’s entirely possible—likely, even—that the infants who turn one next year will become disordered then.”

  O’Rourke spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t know what’s possible and what’s likely anymore. Christ, with everything that’s going down, who does?”

  Rhodes smiled. He had always liked the older man and viewed him as an overemotional uncle who sometimes put his foot in his mouth. “I like it.”

  O’Rourke waved his hand. “Oh, someone else would have mentioned it to you today. I just got your ear first.”

  “Let’s say you’re right, and some two hundred thousand adults turn out to be immune. They’ll be outnumbered by billions of people who weren’t so lucky. They’ll still find themselves in an unsustainable scenario.”

  O’Rourke shrugged. “It will become our responsibility—your responsibility and Donna’s—to ensure their safety. With your permission, I’d like to develop some measures to that effect in the time I have left.”

  Rhodes nodded.

  O’Rourke stood. “For the next two months, at least we’ll have something to hope for, something to believe in. By God, that’s what the world needs right now.”

  Part II

  Don’t Worry; Be Happy

  Hickory, dickory, dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock.

  —nursery rhyme

  Thirteen

  February 13

  Joanne Febrezio exited Bloomingdale’s on Third Avenue. She barely recognized the neighborhood, which had undergone drastic changes. Oh, City Cinemas 1, 2 & 3 had reopened, and her favorite pizza parlor still operated in the shadow of a glass tower that housed shrinking law firms, but far fewer people crossed the sidewalks than usual.

  According to the newscasters on cable TV, a combined total of one-fifth of the world’s population was either dead or incarcerated. After invoking the War Powers Act, President Rhodes signed into law the National Salvation Defense Act, which mandated the imprisonment of all citizens forty-eight hours before their birthday. When the prisons became overcrowded, Rhodes had military bases converted into internment camps.

  Standing on the corner armed with a bag of new clothes, Joanne felt happy to breathe fresh air. She had almost survived her final winter and looked forward to spring. Of course, she had to report to an internment center prior to her birthday in August, but at least she would enjoy one more June, her favorite month of the year. Conflicted emotions rose inside her: Harrold, her husband of nineteen years, had moved out of their apartment.

  “I deserve to be happy,” he had said. “We both do.”

  The apocalypse had arrived, and she would have to spend it alone.

  I’m fine with that, she thought. To hell with him.

  She knew that Har
rold, a professor at Columbia, was running around with students young enough to be his children. Joanne trembled with rage and wiped away tears.

  I’m fine with that spineless worm walking out on me. I’m fine with humanity coming to an end. I’m going to visit museums and read books I’ve put off for too long. I’ll enjoy quality of life even if I can’t enjoy a long life.

  Besides, Columbia had shuttered many of its departments, and Harrold would be out of work soon.

  We’ll see how many of his chippies fall under his sway now.

  The traffic light turned red and she crossed the street. She only made it halfway across the asphalt when a Pontiac slammed into her at seventy miles per hour, smashing her body, which cartwheeled over the vehicle’s roof.

  “Watch out!” Calvin Ethridge said as a woman’s body flew over a blue Pontiac and collided headfirst with the police cruiser.

  Rachel cursed as the cruiser jerked the woman beneath its front end and bounced over it.

  Ethridge seemed to deflate beside her. “Jesus . . .”

  Ahead, a woman got out of a parked Prius. The Pontiac veered to the right, slamming into the Prius’s door, which crushed the woman against the polished gray car. Her scream provided direction for the crimson spray that erupted from her mouth like concentrated water from a fire hydrant.

  “Oh, God!” Ethridge said.

  Gritting her teeth, Rachel pressed harder on the gas pedal.

  As the cruiser increased speed, her partner looked behind them. “We have to see if she’s all right.”

  “She’s dead or close to it. If we want to keep this maniac from killing anyone else, we have to stop him now.” Rachel meant what she said, but she also felt adrenaline coursing through her.

  Speeding through a red light, she attempted to pass the Pontiac on its left side, but the car veered left too, blocking the way. Rachel dropped back for a better view, trying to anticipate the rogue driver’s next move. Frost covered the Pontiac’s rear window, so she couldn’t tell if her target was male or female.