First Days After

by Jay Vielle

  “Believe me, these are people you want on your side,” Wes Kent had told Mark Longaberger and the rest of the new flock. “They bring a wealth of resources and influence. It would be important to have had them here when things were, well, normal, like before. But now, with the need to rebuild society being so urgent? Now it’s crucial to get a good start. To get things going in the right direction.”

  Mark Longaberger was forcing his warmest smile as the church members entered the cafeteria. Mark was sitting on a stool playing the guitar. Wes knew of Mark’s musical background, and suggested that he provide some much needed entertainment for everyone. “What a grand entrance it will provide,” Wes had said. “And what a great impression you’ll be able to make on some important folks.” Mark didn’t mind playing in front of people. He rather liked the attention, he thought to himself. For some reason he had bristled internally, though, that it was Wes who had asked him to do it. It had made him feel a little like the hired help to serve Emmitsburg’s elite. It was probably him being irrational, he thought, and he strummed away on a James Taylor song that he’d remember his dad singing when he was little.

  Wes paraded the group past Mark and introduced him, and the group politely clapped as he nodded acknowledgement. Wes had told him to play throughout dinner and had offered him the chance to eat beforehand so that he could provide a soothing atmosphere for the guests.

  “It just makes sense, my boy,” Wes had told him. ‘You eat first—you deserve it. You’re providing the much-needed ambience, so you get first dibs on dinner.” It all sounded very flattering when Wes had suggested it, but now he couldn’t shake the feeling of being an employee. Mark played five more songs as the guests ate, then Wes had come by to tell him to play one more and call it a night so that the group could have a meeting. Dishes were cleared away by some of the orphaned students—who also had been encouraged to eat early. Wes, Melanie, Lou Orville, Robin Eaves, and several of the originally stranded teachers were sitting among the guests awaiting Wes’s upcoming meeting. Wes took the time to introduce several of the others.

  Jenny Custis—chair of the English Department, a graying woman in her early sixties, was the AP teacher at Hunter’s Run. She had been an influential staff member who had worked on and off with the local community college as well as with the state department of education. She was the teacher that most of the students dreaded having. She taught an extremely difficult course and made sure that everyone in it worked their fingers to the bone in order to pass. Her reputation preceded her—which was just the way she liked it. Mark always felt a little inferior with Jenny in the room, and he got the impression that was premeditated on her part. Jenny’s only child had grown up, gone to an Ivy League school, and moved out west to become a software engineer in Silicon Valley. Her husband had left her decades ago. Hunter’s Run was her life and her domain.

  Also hanging nearby was Ken Miller. Ken was one of the custodians at Hunter’s Run. The one you saw everywhere doing everything. He cut grass, cleaned trash, fixed broken desks, anything he could do to serve the school, which represented home to him, much like it did to Jenny Custis. He had a little desk in a cubby of a corner in one of the storage closets, and he set up shop there daily. Ken was not the building supervisor or the building maintenance man. In fact, he was fairly low on the totem pole of importance for custodians. He was not the smartest member of the staff either, having been raised in the Catoctin Mountains nearby in a cabin that literally had an outhouse until he had reached adolescence and the county made his father put one in order to receive services for his ailing mother. However simple-minded he might have been, Ken was friendly, hard-working, and dedicated to the building and the staff. He was ready with a ‘yes sir’ to Wes Kent whenever he was asked to do anything, and he thought Wes was doing a wonderful job of keeping the flock together. He would often talk the ear off anyone standing still long enough to listen, and now he had wandered up to Mark, who was putting his guitar away.

  “That was some fine playin’ there, Mr. L. Fine playin’. I figger these folks Mr. Kent’s got in here sure did appreciate that atmosphere you was bringin’. He says they’re from the church across the street, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, from the,” Mark began.

  “Church of the Many Blessings, it is, I b’lieve Mr. Kent said. Yup. That sure is a fancy church. They do a lotta stuff over there. Got an elementary school, a day care facility. They even go down to Mexico and Guatemala every year on mission trips. Nice people.”

  “They do seem so, Ken,” said Mark.

  “You know, it sure bugged me when those other folks decided to leave. Mr. Fisher, Mr. Reyes, Miss Kelly and Mr. DeFillipo? I didn’t see that coming at all. They seemed like good folks too, ‘specially the way Mr. Fisher took care of them hoodllums out front. But Mr. Kent, he says they didn’t see eye to eye, and the others decided to just leave. I don’t know about that. The way things look out in town, I don’t know about that. I’da stayed here I think. You never know about some people I guess.”

  Mark just nodded and moved quietly up to the front of the cafeteria in order to hear what was going on. Wes had stood up and began to address the crowd.

  “Folks, we sure are blessed to have you all here tonight and to have found each other. It seems like our town survived much better than much of the areas surrounding, according to what we’ve been able to hear of the news so far. Baltimore, Washington, and Frederick were all devastated, all with extremely high death tolls. God spared us here in Emmitsburg for reasons that only He can know, but it is beholden to us to try and make a new start of things, and to do that, I felt it crucial to bring the church and the school together—something we weren’t really allowed to do before.”

  The crowd gave a collective low laugh for that. Father Joe gave him a thumbs up, and Wes smiled at their appreciation.

  “But it seems to me, that if we are going to rebuild this town, we’ll need not only good people and resources here, but we’ll need to make contact with other areas that also survived. It’s hard to say just yet how extensive the damage is to the country and to the population, but in this tragedy we can also find a new beginning. Set up a new world order of things. And I hope you share my vision.”

  The applause, for only about forty to fifty people there, was loud. Father Joe stood and led the clapping. He was the first to begin and the last to finish. Maybe it was the acoustics, or maybe it was Mark Longaberger’s imagination beginning to run away, but a chill went down his spine when he heard words like ‘new world order,’ and for the first time, Mark began to wonder if he hadn’t picked the wrong person to back. Wes was shaking hand with the guests, and Melanie Richmond came over.

  “He’s very inspiring, don’t you think?” she asked Mark.

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah, of course,” he said absent mindedly.

  “It takes a real leader to do something like this. He has real courage,” she said.

  “Yeah. Courage,” said Mark.

  “When everyone was so high on that Jake Fisher, I knew that he was out of control. I’m glad Wes ran him out,” she said.

  “Really? I thought you were one of his fans,” said Mark. “You two seemed pretty close when this thing first went down.”

  “I never felt comfortable around him,” she said. “He’s got that weird limp, and he’s always hanging around with those Hispanics.”

  “Well, he does teach a section of Honors Spanish class, doesn’t he?” asked Mark.

  “He’s mostly a history teacher. He just filled in for Spanish,” she said.

  “But wouldn’t that explain why he’s often with Hispanics?”

  “Not necessarily. I mean, it’s ridiculous--why would Hispanics be taking Spanish classes anyway? Seems like cheating to me,” she said.

  “Don’t all English-speaking kids take four years of English classes?” asked Mark.

  “That’s different,” said Melanie.

  “Mmm. Different. Gotcha,” he answered.

  “Yo
u’re starting to sound like one of those liberals he hung out with,” Melanie said.

  “I’m just asking questions, Mel,” said Mark. “Don’t worry, I’m still a Republican. Just using some standard Socratic method like I used in class. Teacher thing. Hard to break old habits, you know?”

  “Socratic method?” she asked.

  “You know, Socrates. Greek philosopher. Asked a lot of questions,” said Mark.

  “Socrates? Ew, gross. Isn’t he the one that had sex with his mother? Why would you use his method?” Mark paused for a moment, wrinkled his brown at Melanie, then nodded.

  “Beginning to wonder that myself,” said Mark. Just then Wes walked up.

  “Mark, my boy. Fine job tonight. Many thanks for providing a wonderful atmosphere. It helped a lot. These folks have agreed to join forces with us on some ventures. We’ve increased our numbers, our resources, and our allies,” said Wes.

  “Glad I could help,” said Mark. “But you make it sound like we’re going off to battle.”

  “Ha! Battle! Not quite, lad. Enough war for the whole world this past week, let me tell you. But we are going to revamp this town, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Mark, hesitantly.

  “Well the church is going to send out some scouts in nearby areas. Quick look-sees, in vehicles. Find out the status of neighboring cities and such. They asked that we contribute someone, and I suggested you.”

  “Me?” asked Mark. “Why me?”

  “Well, for starters, because you didn’t get to go on that Wal-Mart recon, for one. Jake Fisher screwed you. He was threatened by you, so he made you stay home. I, for one, would like to see you take a leadership role in things around here, starting with the scouting sortie,” said Wes.

  “Sortie?” asked Mark.

  “Just a phrase, lad. Short trips for purposes of gathering information. Anything you can find out about the outside world. Take notes, pictures, whatever you can. Get back fast and stay out of danger. You up for that?” asked Wes.

  “I suppose so,” asked Mark. “I am curious what’s going on out there. We’ve been cooped up in here for the better part of a week.”

  “Excellent. Glad I can count on you,” Wes said. “You’ll head out tomorrow. Let me introduce you to the fellas you’re going to be traveling with. They’re right over here.”

  Wes paraded Mark Longaberger up to the deacons of the church, Roz and Billy James. Mark shook hands with Father Joe and smiled, whose friendliness seemed to ease his anxiety a bit.

  “Nice to meet all of you,” said Mark.

  “You were wonderful tonight, Mark,” said Emery Butler. Butler was the choir director for the church. A man in his sixties, he looked older somehow. He had ash-colored, sallow cheeks, almost a grey-yellow in tone. His hair was nearly white, and his skin looked partly mummified. His words were spoken in a high pitched voice, and he nearly always had his hands on Mark somewhere. He shook hands with both hands, one on Mark’s arm; he rested his hand on Mark’s shoulder as they chatted; he patted Mark’s arms when complimenting him on his physique. Mark’s anxiety level raised again.

  “Mark’s going with you all when you head out tomorrow on recon,” said Wes. “He’ll be invaluable to you. Sharp young man, here. Sharp young man indeed.”

  “Great to hear,” said Emery in his high-pitched voice. “Can’t wait to see what we see.” Mark smiled politely and nodded.

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

  The next morning, a white minivan with the church logo printed on it pulled up in front of the school. Wes and Mark went out to meet it. Wes was all smiles. Mark was feeling anxious. Emery Butler was in the shotgun seat, and a large, muscular man was driving. Mark had not seen him the night before. He presumed that the man was one of the security people that the church was using to monitor things at their compound. Billy James was in the back seated on the bench-seat. He nodded to Mark and gave a small salute, then beckoned Mark to take the swiveling chair in the middle. Mark did, and Wes Kent leaned in to speak to the group.

  “Come back with as much information as you can, boys,” said Wes. “Stay safe, don’t linger anywhere that looks dangerous, but remember that information is power. We need you to do your jobs so that we can move forward. Best of luck.”

  With that he slammed the sliding door shut, patted the window, and the van pulled out of the parking lot.

  The quiet, muscled driver headed onto Main Street, an alternate Route of US Route 15, that carried folks in the mid-Atlantic from Virginia to Pennsylvania and beyond. Downtown Emmitsburg looked like most small town in the northern part of Maryland and southern part of Pennsylvania. Much of the town’s heyday came decades before, and the architecture of the homes and businesses there displayed it. The real contrast came with the Catholic church’s properties, which included campuses and monuments to Saint Elizabeth Keough, Mount St. Michael’s University, and the Grotto of Lourdes. All of those areas were spotless, manicured, and beautiful in every possible aspect. Juxtaposed with the pristine and sometimes opulent property associated with the Catholic church, there were also areas of lower income housing, and some places in the outskirts in the country that looked almost condemned. Regardless of which socioeconomic background Emmitsburg residents came from, they were usually found bustling on the streets.

  But not today. Streets were empty, cars were still and businesses were silent. Most houses had shades pulled or curtains drawn. The bombings of a few days ago had driven people inside.

  “Over there,” said Emery. “Look at the grocery store.”

  Several people scurried in and out of the building nervously, looking all around them for anyone who might be watching.

  “There’s some more over there, Emery,” said Billy, as folks slipped into a dollar store on Main Street.

  “There’s some activity in that tavern, too,” replied Emery. They pulled the shades, but I saw several figures.

  “So, it looks like the town of Emmitsburg fared pretty well so far,” said Billy. “We were lucky. My wife got word that Washington and Frederick got hit bad.”

  “Where’d she hear that?” asked Mark. “Our communication has been spotty at the school.”

  “Roz has a younger brother on the military detachment for Camp David,” said Billy. He texted her. He said Frederick is like a ghost town.”

  “Is the president at Camp David?” asked Mark.

  “Roz’s brother wouldn’t say.”

  “Mmm, I guess that’s how it should be,” said Mark. “I wonder how other towns fared.”

  “It’s going to be up to individuals to come together with information when they can,” said Emery. “That’s why we’re moving on this now. We want to be ahead of the curve.”

  “What curve?” asked Mark. “Our country has been attacked, and you gotta figure that at least some of it has been demolished. What possible curve could there be?”

  “Life is all about curves, Mark,” said Billy. “Things end, things begin. Everything is cyclical. And whether you lead or follow, the view never changes. The Catholic church has had a strangle hold on this town for centuries. We have an opportunity to add our own influence as the town rebuilds.”

  “Wait a second,” said Mark. “World War III takes place, for all we know the Apocalypse is here, and you are worried about extending your influence over a traditionally Catholic town?”

  The large driver glanced in the rearview mirror at Mark and glowered. Emery frowned a little and turned around. Billy patted Mark reassuringly on the shoulder.

  “I know that sounds petty the way you’re saying it, Mark, but think for a minute. We have certain ideals that we believe in as a society, and we want to advance those ideals. For whatever reason, as successful as our church is, not everyone attended it. Maybe it’s due to a family tradition, maybe some folks are intimidated, who knows? But reaching out to people in their moment of need shows our good intentions an
d brings people into our flock and helps us spread those ideals.”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds much better. Sorry I reacted the way I did,” said Mark.

  “No problem. It’s totally understandable,” said Billy.

  The van toured the town uneventfully for a few minutes, and the driver pulled out onto a back road that led the van to a pocket of low-income apartments behind a gas station. There were a number of signs in Spanish advertising various items, including a place where people could wire money to Mexico and Central America. A few people scurried in and out of the apartments looking distrustful of the van.

  “There are some people there,” said Mark. “See? Around those apartments.”

  “They’re, uh, not really our kind of people,” said Emery. The driver shot a sharp look at Emery and Billy nervously jumped in.

  “Emery means that we haven’t had much success getting them over in the past,” Billy said.

  “But your sign literally advertises services in Spanish on the marquee. I’ve seen it,” said Mark.

  “Sure, not for want of trying,” said Billy. “We try all the time, but these folks are too…Catholic I suppose. They are mistrustful of white people. Probably because they’re illegals. We do have Hispanics in our church, Mark. There are several families from Spain, in fact. Señor Pablo Fuentes leads our translation services with Father Joe. He helps us with our marquee messages as well.”

  “Spain,” said Mark.

  “Yup. I’m sorry you didn’t meet Pablo. He didn’t make it over last night because he was keeping a vigil at the church. He was on watch, so to speak. I think he may be coming over to Hunter’s Run today, in fact. Wonderful man,” said Emery.