The Julian Year

by Gregory Lamberson

  On Fourteenth Street, he found an Internet café filled to capacity. He took a number and ordered coffee and soup. Monitors displayed e-mail, news sites, and Facebook.

  You know the world isn’t over yet when Facebook is still running, he thought.

  Half an hour later, he sat at a small table and took a piece of paper from his pocket. Using the password information, he logged on to the alternative newspaper The Last Words and created a blog account.

  The bus ride home was uneventful. Weizak waited until he was in his own neighborhood to get dinner, because he didn’t like staying out late in foreign territories. He stopped at a pizzeria and got a pie and a two-liter bottle of soda to go. Screw the diet. On the walk to his building, he counted the soldiers standing near bright work lights: twelve spread out among three sandbag stacks.

  Sitting alone in his apartment with his jacket on, eating pizza while listening to the news on the radio, he wondered if he had made a mistake staying in Manhattan.

  How much better could it be somewhere else? At least there’s a high concentration of soldiers here.

  He ate only half the pie, then set the rest aside for breakfast just in case the coffee shop closed. Now was the time to start worrying about such things, and he glanced at the cases of canned and dry food stacked floor to ceiling across the room. He was good to go.

  Sitting at his computer, he opened a Word document. Maybe he couldn’t access the Internet from home, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still write on his computer.

  On the radio, a former movie star read the headlines with utter conviction. “The overcrowding of prisons and temporary detention centers has reached epidemic proportions nationwide. Not only are existing facilities beyond full capacity, but there is a scarcity of corrections officers, police, National Guards, and soldiers to guard them. Randal Penhallow, formerly a Republican senator before the dissolution of Congress, has launched a petition among his former colleagues pressuring President Lopez to resume the executions of possessed people immediately. So far, there has been no response from the White House.”

  Weizak opened a file in his documents labeled The Julian Year. At this point, his personal journal ran 529 pages.

  “In other news, celebrities born on this day include actor Tim Robbins, B-movie actress Erin Brown, musician John Mayer, and Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Tomorrow’s celebrity possession watch includes American baseball player John Rocker, cartoonist Mike Judge, and rapper Eminem. For a complete list of celebrity possessions and fatalities, visit www.celeb—”

  The lights went off, the sound died, and the image on the monitor faded to black. In the kitchen an emergency flashlight plugged into the wall powered on. Weizak was used to light from outside coming through the windows when the lights in his studio were off, but that didn’t happen now. Somewhere in the darkness a car horn honked, followed by another and another after that. Then a car alarm sounded.

  Opening his desk drawer, he took out a Maglite and activated it. Following the small circle of light, he entered the kitchen, where he pulled the emergency flashlight from the wall and swung its beam around the studio. It gave off a lot more light than the Maglite, which he now turned off.

  As he made his way back through the apartment, police sirens filled the night. He peered through the blinds as two police cars sped by, their strobes providing the only illumination in the dense, oppressive blackness.

  This is it, he thought.

  But he knew it was only the beginning.

  Deep in his mind, Weizak heard the locks on his front door turning: tinny metallic clicks that echoed. He opened his eyes, then blinked at pitch-black darkness. Had he been dreaming?

  The door opened. With his heart thudding, he groped for the flashlight on the bedside table. The door slammed shut with finality, and Weizak resisted the urge to scream. Two red lights moved through the darkness, bearing down on him. Flesh closed over the red spheres, which shone through it. Weizak heard footsteps timed with the motion of the lights. Remaining perfectly still, he held his breath.

  When the lights stopped above the bed, he switched the flashlight on and brought up his .38 revolver, which he kept beneath his pillow.

  The figure before him flinched at the sudden light, and the only thing that stopped Weizak from pulling the trigger was that he recognized Cathy.

  “Weizak!” She batted at the light in her face as if it were an invisible butterfly.

  Her distraction gave him time to rise to his knees, with the gun still aimed at her. “Who the hell are you?”

  Although she stopped moving in a frantic manner, Cathy continued to squint at the light. “You know who I am.”

  Weizak set one foot on the floor, then the other. “I know who you were. Who are you now?”

  She appeared to relax, her posture taking on an air of confidence. “‘My name is Legion for we are many.’”

  “Isn’t that a surprise?”

  “Cathy’s still inside me. That’s how I know all about her and everything she knew about you. Put that gun away. We both know you won’t use it.”

  Easing the hammer on the .38, Weizak lowered the weapon.

  “Now get that light out of my face.”

  “I like to see who I’m talking to.”

  Cathy smiled. “You’ll see my eyes.”

  “I’d like to see your face too.”

  “Shine the light on my chest and it’ll illuminate my features.”

  Weizak lowered the aim of the flashlight, and Cathy shed her leather coat, revealing an off-white sweater.

  “Did you miss me?”

  Games, he thought. “As far as I know, we’ve never met before.”

  “Did you miss this body?”

  Weizak swallowed. “It was pretty damned good to me.”

  Crossing her arms, Cathy pulled the sweater over her head and discarded it, allowing her full breasts to glow in the flashlight beam. “Say the word, and it will be even better to you.”

  “What have I done to deserve such a treat?”

  She circled the bed with deliberate slowness and stood before him. “Nothing. None of you deserves a reward. If anything, you’re all being punished.”

  “Then why are you tempting me?”

  She traced one nipple with a digit. “Because I’m back in the flesh, and I’ve got a hundred years’ worth of yearning inside me. Cathy’s memories of you are strongest because they’re the most recent. I can’t shake them, but I can sure as hell beat them.”

  “You look well, eyes notwithstanding.”

  “I look great. I couldn’t be happier with my host.”

  “I was kind of fond of her myself, which is why I think the proper thing to do is pass on your generous offer.”

  She slid her hands up Weizak’s chest, and he felt the tips of her fingernails through the fabric of his tank top.

  “This body belongs to me,” she said, “but I’ll share it with you.”

  Weizak grasped her arms and she kissed him. He tasted her tongue and felt her erect nipples against him. Then he pushed her onto the bed.

  Leaning back on her elbows, Cathy wet her lips with her tongue.

  “I don’t deserve you,” Weizak said, keeping his sarcasm in check.

  The sexual smile on Cathy’s face turned into a predatory scowl, and she spread her legs.

  Weizak crossed the dark studio and sat at his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a voice-activated recorder. “Are you in contact with Cathy? Do you communicate with each other?”

  She rose from the bed and circled it in the opposite direction, Weizak’s flashlight following her like a spotlight. “Cathy’s gone and she’s never coming back. Her memories linger in my brain like a mild hangover.” She grabbed her sweater and put it on, then picked up her coat. “I want to live while the living’s good. You should do the same thing while you’ve still got time.”

  “I’m flattered but what do you really want?”

  “This time we’re delivering a message jus
t for you.”

  Weizak couldn’t stop staring at her freakish eyes.

  “As we speak, my people are breaking out of prisons and detention centers all over the world. Tomorrow there will be as many of us walking around as there will be of you.”

  “Did you cause the power outage?”

  “No, but we knew it was coming; it was inevitable. We waited and watched until circumstances were favorable for us to strike.”

  “Does this mean war again?”

  “Not the kind you mean. We don’t want hostilities.”

  “Because you want us alive.”

  “Push has come to shove.”

  “Why am I getting this exclusive information? It’s not like I can publish it anywhere. I’ve written my last byline.” Weizak noticed she had stopped blinking. Was she trying to hypnotize him?

  “You’ll be here to write mankind’s epitaph.”

  “So?”

  “We don’t want you to worry. Everything will be okay. You’re in no danger.”

  “In other words, you don’t want me to kill myself.”

  “Keep writing your little history. Don’t bother running or hiding—wherever you go, we’ll know you. Avoid any association with groups that think violence is the solution to preventing this from happening.”

  “Why did the possession begin on the East Coast?”

  “This is the media capital of the world. We wanted the best coverage possible.” She turned from him, her eyes at last removed from his sight.

  He aimed the flashlight at her back as she walked to the front door and opened it. She melted into the darkness and closed the door, leaving Weizak alone in the dark, listening to the sirens of police cars and the whirring of helicopters.

  Forty-three

  October 30

  Rachel stood in the back of the classroom, watching the children cut hand-drawn masks out of construction paper, her arms folded across her chest. At the other end of the room, Betty glanced at the wall clock.

  Feeling a familiar tug on the waistband of her jeans, Rachel looked down at a round white face with two black socket eyes and a grin that resembled the keys of a piano. “Jack Skellington!” Rachel kneeled before the child.

  Ashanti removed the paper mask.

  “Oh, it’s Ashanti! You fooled me.”

  Ashanti laughed and ran off.

  Smiling, Rachel stood just as the alarm sounded.

  The children looked at her and Betty.

  Rachel raised her hands. “It’s okay, everyone. This is a drill. What do we do in an emergency?”

  A Korean boy named Chuck pointed across the room. “Go to the closet.”

  While the alarm continued, Rachel followed Chuck’s directions. “That’s right. We go to the closet.” She opened the door, and when she turned back the children gathered around her. “Now what?”

  “Remove the panel,” said Sara, who had two spaces in her front teeth.

  “Very good.” Stepping into the closet, Rachel removed a wood panel from the left side of the closet. “Make sure you lean the panel so it’s upright, because you’re going to need it again.”

  She motioned for the children to enter the space created by the missing panel, and one by one they disappeared into the darkness, followed by Betty. Rachel entered last and put the panel back into place. Dingy red light illuminated a hallway four feet wide with cinder-block walls, which she followed until she caught up to Betty and the kids, who stood around a metal ladder bolted to the wall.

  “In a real emergency, I don’t want any of you waiting for us. Get up that ladder.”

  The children scrambled up the ladder.

  “You too,” she said to Betty.

  Betty climbed onto the concrete level above, and Rachel climbed after her. On the landing, illuminated by another red light, she saw the kids running around a corner ahead. Flashlights had been removed from a wall rack. Older kids came down another hall and went in the same direction; separate exits and ladders led to the same level.

  Rachel followed the sound of echoing footsteps and stopped when she reached the back of the line waiting to get through a narrow threshold. She pushed her way past the students, then reached her class standing around another ladder. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the darkness.

  “Okay, great job. In a real emergency—or if you don’t know if it’s an emergency or a drill—climb this ladder.”

  “It’s so high,” an older boy said.

  “There are seven more levels like this one. You have to climb to every one of them. Catch your breath but don’t wait—keep climbing. I don’t care how tired you get. Keep going. Your life may depend on it. When you reach the top, you’ll find storm drains you can use as exits.”

  “Anything could go wrong up there,” Chuck said.

  “You can’t worry about that until you get there.”

  “What do we do when we get out?”

  “Run.”

  October 31

  No trick-or-treaters came to chez Weizak this year. I suppose it defeats the purpose of wearing a costume when most of the souls walking the earth are demons in human guise.

  Forty-four

  The Julian Year

  by Julian Weizak

  November 1

  The studio is cold day and night but especially at night. Why didn’t the city’s government ever mandate that all apartments be equipped with fireplaces? I’m grateful for the wood-burning stove I bought, but I’m afraid to use it—not because of the Regan MacNeils but because of the packs of scavengers roaming the streets. Smoke from the stove would lead them right to me.

  Sometimes I hear them breaking into the other apartments in the building. Several have tried to break into mine, but the iron bar wedged into the doorjamb has kept them at bay. I can only imagine what the other side of the door looks like after those beatings.

  I sleep in layers of clothing under layers of blankets surrounded by lit candles. Sometimes this apartment resembles a shrine, which is kind of pretty. I have plenty of batteries, not to mention water, canned food, and dry food—certainly enough to last me until the end of the year.

  I light a can of Sterno on my portable stove every night two hours before retiring; when the Sterno goes out, so do I. Until then I use a flashlight to read, which is easier on my eyes than reading by candlelight. Loading up on books was as important to me as hoarding food and other essentials. I used to read on the subway a lot. When the world turned topsy-turvy and I became a big time reporter and started taking taxis, I stopped reading. Now I have all the time in the world, and by that I mean two months.

  I wonder what Burgess Meredith’s character in that old episode of The Twilight Zone wanted to read before he broke his glasses.

  November 3

  Someone tried to break in again today. I heard the voices of several men in the hallways. When they couldn’t get into my studio, they resorted to taunts.

  “We know you’re in there,” one of the men said.

  Holding my gun, I backed against the wall between the two window gates.

  The man hammered away at the metal door but got nowhere. “We’ll be back.”

  I believed him. All they had to do was break into the apartment next door and take a sledgehammer to the wall separating us. That’s okay. If anyone gets in I’ve got a loaded six-shooter and over one hundred cans of food with which to defend myself.

  After boiling some Progresso soup on the Sterno stove, I cracked open The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and imagined what it would be like to be drifting on the Mississippi River.

  Forty-five

  November 4

  “I’m quitting,” Rachel said.

  Martin looked up from the scratched desk in the cramped alcove that served as his office. Crow’s-feet had pulled his eyes down, and he seemed even wearier than he had at their first meeting. “Why’s that?”

  “I’m at the school so much now that it feels like I don’t have time for anything else.”

  Sighing, Martin sat back in
his wooden swivel chair. “The school. Kids. I knew it.”

  “I’m also teaching grown-ups to shoot guns.”

  “You’ll be missed. You were a good worker, a fast learner.”

  “I needed to be a part of what you’re doing here. Now I need the kids more. And they need me.”

  Nodding, he returned his attention to the paperwork before him. “They gave us space for two more levels but only enough materials for one.”

  Rachel didn’t think it mattered.

  Forty-six

  The Julian Year

  By Julian Weizak

  November 6

  I admit to fantasizing about Dagny Taggart, but I can’t see finishing Atlas Shrugged. As boring as it is, I’ve resorted to taking NyQuil before bed to help me sleep. I hope I don’t become addicted to the nighttime cold medicine, because I have only four bottles, and when I run out I’ll have to go outside for more.

  During the day I listen to my old CDs with the volume low enough so that no one wandering the building’s halls will hear it. At night I listen to the wind howling. Sometimes I hear a solitary dog barking, a Humvee rolling down the street, or an isolated gunshot.

  November 7

  Lord of the Flies is a much better book than Atlas Shrugged, but it isn’t exactly cheering me up. As I read these classics, I can’t help but imagine how the characters in them would cope with my predicament. Poor Piggy.

  November 8

  How did a novel as badly written as Jaws ever become such a great movie?

  This has gotten me thinking about beaches, and I wonder for about the five thousandth time if remaining on the East Coast was the right choice.

  Time to think about Dagny again . . .

  November 9

  I keep a calendar on the wall and dutifully check off every day. I also keep my eye on the wall clock, so I’ll know whether or not I need to change the batteries. It’s important to me to keep track of the time, day, and date.