First Days After

by Jay Vielle

  “I suppose so,” said Billy. “I know that directness is more your way. I just prefer a little more subtlety,” he said. “Let things sink in more slowly. Maybe if you had tried more subtlety with your daughter, she might have come around.”

  “Apart from being none of your business, my daughter’s issues were likely a result of laxity on the part of my former wife, and too deeply ingrained for her to accept my beliefs. It is not uncommon in a child to be rebellious of whatever her parent’s ways are. My daughter is likely no more complicated than that. She knew her choices would go against mine, and she took a perverse pleasure in that somewhere in her subconscious. At any rate, I do not speak to her anymore. Her choices have brought about consequences, and I don’t wish to discuss it further,” said Pablo.

  “I’m sorry to have upset you, my friend. I didn’t mean to step on your toes and open up an old wound. You and I have different styles, that’s all, but we’re still doing God’s work. You are an invaluable asset to this church, and the day you came to us is still one of the greatest moments of our existence. What you bring us is more than we could ever repay,” said Billy, extending his hand.

  Pablo took it, shook it firmly, and nodded.

  “I’m sorry too. It is an old wound, as you say, and I was wrong to give in to anger. We have no problems between us,” Pablo said, smiling resolvedly.

  Father Joe entered the courtyard where the two men were.

  “What’s going on, gentlemen? Where did Mark Longaberger go?”

  “I think I may have frightened him off, Padre,” said Pablo.

  “How so?” asked Father Joe.

  “Pablo simply expressed a few of the church’s views on…selectivity, Father,” said Billy. “Nothing untoward. He was completely professional. Mark felt uncomfortable and decided to wander off.”

  “Wander off? Where to?” asked Father Joe.

  “I don’t know. Why? Is it a problem?” asked Billy.

  “That depends on where he wanders and what his state of mind was when he left. If he wanders into the group of people we just began to recruit into our flock, he could cause undue damage.”

  “How much damage can one guy do, though, Father? I mean, given the circumstances,” asked Billy.

  “Consider this: He is a young, attractive, charismatic teacher of history, social studies, and current events. His career has him stand before skeptical, rebellious crowds and speak rhetorically to them every day, getting them to accept information that they themselves either don’t already know or don’t already believe. The very things that make Wes Kent such a resource to us are potentially magnified tenfold in this young man. Word has it that he is very intelligent and well respected. He’s also young, popular, and good-looking. The kind of numbers someone like that could bring in include a demographic that is very hard to reach on behalf of the church. Church, in and of itself, does not attract younger people these days. Wes Kent, despite his good work, doesn’t appeal to teenage or twenty-something girls or young men who see themselves in him. Mark Longaberger could do that. He could also—If he decides to flat-out reject what we’re selling—do untold amounts of damage to that very same demographic,” said Father Joe.

  “We won’t make a new world with middle-aged men. We need young people as well. In droves. And young people don’t usually go to church, because church usually tells them what they’re doing is wrong and that they should stop doing it. They think themselves immortal, and rarely consider the afterlife. It takes a virtual act of God to shock them into considering ideas that are larger than they are, like God or Heaven, and where they’ll go after this life is over. What just happened this week-- however horrible it has been to the United States, the world, and this little town—is also a wonderous opportunity to reach young people. Because now they can walk the streets and see the daily devastation around them. They can see what horrible things unsaved human beings can wreck upon one another. Thanks to this horrible Cataclysm, their own mortality is staring them directly in the face. And we offer something they’ve never considered before: a supernatural insurance policy. Don’t you see, gentlemen? This is our moment. This is the chance we have now to form the world we’ve always wanted to see. We bring order in a time of chaos, and an afterlife in a time of daily death. This chance may never come again, and we need to capitalize on it. Mark Longaberger is one man, sure. But every man, especially those with gifts, is an asset. And we must try to use every asset available to us.”

  Billy and Pablo stared in awe, nodding. Father Joe’s words were captivating. The men standing behind him in the courtyard were transfixed. Some were loyal deacons of the church, others brand new potential converts, but every one of them was hanging on Father Joe’s words. Pablo and Billy nodded in resolution.

  “Very true, Padre. Your wisdom is truly an awesome thing, and your vision is the reason I came here to begin with. Billy and I will see if we can find Mark before he is frightened away from us,” said Pablo.

  “Very well, but I would like to talk with him personally. You two do very good work—and you make a sound combination, a fine one-two punch as it were. Billy is a little slower and takes smaller steps, Pablo you are more direct and forthright, and together you are formidable recruiters. Buy my sources tell me that Mark Longaberger may require a special touch. He is a scholar and a thinker, and not only erudite but also one who considers himself a lifelong learner. I will try to appeal to him on an intellectual, rational basis and see what we can do,” said Father Joe.

  “Of course, Father. I’m sure you’ll be able to get him to see the light,” said Pablo.

  “Thank you, brother Pablo,” said Father Joe. “I will do my utmost.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” asked Billy.

  “Hmm?” said Father Joe.

  “If he doesn’t? See the light?” asked Billy.

  “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it,” said Father Joe.

  CHAPTER 17

  I was morose. Jake was fast becoming my hero, and I had seen him get through some pretty impressive shit this week. He clobbered the three thugs who had attacked the Heffners. He had bested four gang bangers attacking Estela at the Wal-Mart. He even managed to elude some kind of mutated people while rescuing Wendy and the Colonel from a war zone. But this time--this time I couldn’t see what he could possibly do to get himself or any of the rest of us out of this. He was tied, beaten, and being ordered around by organized criminals. They weren’t just thugs; these guys had done hard time and knew how to run an operation. We were heavily outnumbered, heavily outgunned, and were about to be either separated, sold into slavery or outright killed. Things were looking hopeless. The only smidgen of hope I could conjure up was that Glen Billings had found a way out and somehow they were so busy with us that they hadn’t noticed.

  Glen was diabetic, and it wasn’t unlike him to have some problems. He had even fallen into a diabetic coma once during football season. I figured the same thing had happened here, and that his captors—our captors—didn’t give enough of a shit to bother with him. The fact that he was gone didn’t necessarily mean good news. To be honest, he could have dropped dead of low blood sugar and one of the guards found him and disposed of his body somewhere. Or even have found him in bad shape and simply finished him off. But given the comings and goings of folks as I was able to observe them while we were at the greenhouse, I didn’t think so. I had not heard shouting, nor had I heard any gunshots, and it stood to reason that one of the two would have come up if any of them had found him lying there. I figured that Glen had to be faking. God, I hoped he was faking. If that was true, he had managed to sneak off, maybe even get his zip ties cut, and was just biding his time until he could help the rest of us get free.

  That was our only hope as I saw it, and that still meant Glen would have to find a way to free us, get guns, somehow get those guns to us, and then we would still have to be good enough and lucky enough to beat these guys to make a getaway. That would be more classically heroic than a
nything Jake had pulled off this week. It honestly would be more heroic than most of the crap I saw on television. And Glen was a high school kid. Very few grown men could pull off something like that, much less a teenager with a major health problem. And even in the most desperate hope fulfilled that Glen and the rest of us managed to pull all of that off, that didn’t account for the girls, either. If we had managed to do all of that and get away, it would mean leaving the girls, who had been hauled off to God-Knows-Where. I knew that if Jake managed to get free, there’s no way he’d leave the girls. Jake was a bundle of Marine Corps ‘leave none behind,’ a misdirected overly protective sense of chivalry, coupled with the guilt he already felt having lost his wife. He’d die trying to free them before leaving them. And that pretty much meant we were doomed any way you spun it.

  I sat there staring at our crew. The Colonel looked old and tired. So did Jake, maybe for the first time since I knew him. Jake’s boys looked sullen. Tommy looked at the ground and scowled the whole time. Vinny looked on the verge of a breakdown. Al DeFillipo was almost apoplectic. He kept looking around for Maureen, asking me what I thought might happen to her. I just shook my head and told him I didn’t know.

  Maureen, Wendy, Jada, Estela, and our new addition, Morgan, had been marched off in a different direction. Larry, or Lawrence, or whatever the fuck our new owner’s preferred name was, had been very clear about his intentions for them. Five attractive women. Good price. Good time for his boys. I thought about Morgan and Estela particularly. Somehow their being gay and being raped by thug men just made it worse. I know that it didn’t, but being gay myself, I felt an extra pang of pain for them. I just kept shaking my head. I didn’t see any way out of this.

  “I just don’t understand how this man was able to create this compound so quickly,” said the Colonel in a loud whisper while sitting on the bleachers of the football stadium.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The bombs went off a week ago. This man has a well-armed, well-trained crew; he has taken over the local high school; he has set up a drug distribution center; and has collected a fair amount of captives to be used as slaves for his endeavors. This kind of operation doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t even happen in a week,” the Colonel said.

  “I’m betting he had it running some time ago,” said Jake. It was the first thing he had said out loud since his altercation with Nick when we arrived. “You heard him say he is an ex-con. It’s tough for those people to get jobs. Usually it requires someone to take a chance on you for a manual labor type position. He said that he was a truck driver. My guess is that this whole set-up was already in operation in some way before the bombs hit. Once the chaos of that began to spread, they simply moved over and took the next step up.”

  “I think you may be right, Marine,” said the Colonel. “I saw my fair share of that kind of thing happening in Iraq and Afghanistan. Local warlords, drug lords, and crime bosses already had a web set with people in it operating out of sight. Once someone in power was killed or arrested, they made their power move.”

  “It’s like some small-town ex-con decided he wanted to be bigger than he was and recruited half of Cell Block D to help him out. Now he’s some kind of apocalyptic warlord gangster trying to increase his holdings,” said Jake.

  “Shut up, piss-wipe,” said Nick, the holder of the shotgun from before. He had come in the back entrance without our knowing.

  “You fuckers don’t know nothing about Larry,” he said. “So just shut up.”

  “Why don’t you tell us, Nick. It’s Nick, isn’t it?” Jake said.

  “Shut up, grappler man, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  “No need to get violent, boss. I’m not fighting now. You were right, I was defending my son back there. It was instinct. But I’m restrained effectively now. I’m not plotting anything. I’ve done what you asked. I’m not a threat. So, tell us, how’d your boss—how’d Larry—get all this up and running so fast. It’s an impressive operation.”

  Nick paused for a moment, trying to make heads or tails out of Jake’s question. Then turned to Jake and scowled.

  The Colonel, wiping sweat off of his forehead with his bound hands, stepped up.

  “Considering how recently the world began dropping bombs on itself, this operation is moving quite efficiently. It does beg the question, son. How did you do it?” he said.

  Nick breathed out, and his face softened a bit, and he nodded ever so slightly.

  “You’re right, sir. This operation was set up already to a point. Our boss—Mr. Dwyer—owned the trucking company. He was an ex-con himself, and he always offered a hand to ex-cons to get them work. Over half of the company was ex-cons. Some of us even knew each other in the joint. Dwyer was a bossy asshole, though. Treated us like we were his bitches in the slammer. That shit was old when we were in, and it sure as shit got old outside.

  “So, one day, Larry decides he’s had enough, and offs him and takes over the company. It was the day the bombs fell. Larry had been talking about it for a while, then the day the bombing started, Larry came back from a D.C. run, organized a meeting, and then we took over. Larry’s the fucking man. He was the man in the pen, and he’s the man again now. And now we’re gonna expand even more and take over a shitload of territory. People will have to pay us a toll just to drive through this area on our interstate.”

  “Impressive,” said Jake. “Made his move during the chaos of the bombing. He must have been plotting it a little before, huh? I mean, to get so many moving parts in order in such a short time.”

  Nick scowled at Jake, not knowing what to make of his curiosity.

  “It does seem like a brilliant tactical move,” said the Colonel. Nick nodded, turning his head from Jake.

  “He had us all ready, told us one day the time would be right for a hostile takeover, he said,” Nick mentioned. “Despite what you may think, I don’t mind telling you all this shit, ‘cause you probably ain’t gonna be here long. You bastards are either gonna get sold as labor to another of our partners, or Larry’s gonna give me permission to shoot you, so I don’t give a fuck what you ask me right now,” he added.

  “Most appreciative, Nick,” said Jake. “Just one more question.”

  “Make it fast. I’m getting tired of listening to your ass,” he said.

  “What’s your percentage?” asked Jake.

  “Huh?”

  “For joining up with Larry. What are you getting out of it now that the old boss--Mr. Dwyer, was it? Now that Mr. Dwyer is gone, and whatever operation he had set up is now Larry’s, what’s in it for you?”

  “I’m a partner,” said Nick.

  “That’s what I mean. Partner of what? What do you get for putting your neck on the line for him?”

  “I get profit. Money. All that shit,” Nick shouted.

  “How much have you gotten so far?” asked Jake.

  Nick went quiet. His nostrils flared and he ground his teeth at Jake.

  “Has he paid you since the coup d’état?” asked the Colonel.

  “The what?”

  “Since the hostile takeover,” the Colonel explained. “My colleague simply wants to know what have you gotten for your effort? How is your life different now than it was under the previous owner?”

  “It don’t work like that, Sir,” said Nick.

  “How does it work?” asked Jake mildly, his tone unthreatening and even a little suave.

  “I don’t have to talk to you about this,” said Nick angrily. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Sorry, he didn’t mean to upset you. He—we—are just curious,” said the Colonel, eyeing Jake. I caught the subtle glance, and like the Colonel, realized that Nick was responding much more pleasantly to him than he was to Jake. The Colonel was trying to send Jake the message to back off and let him find out what he could. For some reason, the tiniest bit of hope entered my brain.

  “I mean, you all did the heavy lifting I’d imagine. You secured this sc
hool campus, all that cannabis we moved, all these weapons. Your boss—Larry—is obviously giving the orders. He knows how much he’s getting. I think my colleague just wondered what your take was in all of this,” said the Colonel, fluidly.

  “He gets what he deserves. Larry killed Dwyer himself. He’d doing plenty. He’s calling the shots. He’s the brains of the outfit,” Nick said.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that, son. It’s clear Larry has no trouble getting his hands a little bloody. And I’m sure he also gets his share of the profits. I just wondered, with an operation this large, one that’s taking in drug money, slave money, and probably some gun money, what are the…helpers getting for all their help?”

  Nick was silent again. It was all I could do to contain my smile. I realized that Jake had wanted to work a psychological angle, but obviously his earlier altercation with Nick made it impossible for him to switch gears. But the Colonel for some reason was being given some latitude. And he was sharp enough to pick up on that, and was doing the only thing he could, given our situation. He was calm, methodical, emotionless, nonthreatening. He was also breathing hard and sweating. I was worried that he couldn’t keep this up much longer. But he had kept pace thus far, and his panting didn’t affect his dialogue.

  “We’re gonna get plenty,” said Nick.

  “I’m sure you are. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” said the Colonel. “Tell you what. We can just drop it. I didn’t mean to pry, and I surely don’t want to upset somebody with a weapon held on me.”

  Nick looked at the ground and chewed his lip a bit.

  Just then, the gunman driving the Gator drove up and stopped in front of Nick.

  “Hey Troy,” said Nick. “What’s up?”

  “Larry wants these guys at the front of the school. Says he’s called a buyer who wants them, and he wants to inspect them more himself now that they’ve done some work,” said Troy.