by William Oday
How was a person supposed to look at a lifetime of accumulation and memories and decide which handful made the cut?
And how was that supposed to happen when each decision got less than a second or two of consideration?
It was impossible.
And so they did the best they could.
Beth dug through Theresa’s sheets and fished out a prize. Lambchops. As bedraggled as ever. Both eye buttons missing and ears frayed into stringy threads. The loyal lovie looked more like garbage than something you’d want to shove into a trash bag of your dearest belongings. Despite his appearance, or maybe because of it, his inclusion was never in question.
She crammed him inside and Mason tied the top into a knot. He hefted the bag over his shoulder and was about to walk it out when Elio appeared in the doorway.
“I got it,” he said as he grabbed the bag. “You need to go easy on that ankle.”
“Thanks. You’re a good kid, you know.”
A lopsided smile spread across his face. He nodded and departed with the last bag.
Mason checked his watch.
Forty-two seconds left on the clock.
He gathered Beth in his arms. He glanced over her shoulder at the corner of the room. “I remember the night we put together Theresa’s crib. In a room about half this size. How we argued if it should go by the window or in the corner.”
She squeezed him tight, shaping her body into his. She rested her cheek on his chest. “And I remember how I convinced you I was right.”
Images flashed through Mason’s mind. Beth’s bare skin moving in ways that would make the Pope blush. They’d built a life together. Much of it here.
A cat meowed in the hallway.
Mr. Piddles strolled in and wrapped his body around Beth’s leg. He twisted through her legs with his long tail curling around behind.
“Looks like we’re all out of trash bags,” Mason said.
Beth arched a brow at him. “He’s going. Iridia is going to need him now more than ever.”
Iridia was in the chopper in Miro’s arms. She hadn’t stopped sobbing since losing her father. Beth was right, as she usually was in matters of the heart.
Mason surveyed the overweight feline. “Well, I suppose we could eat him if food gets scarce.”
Beth cuffed his shoulder. “Not funny.”
Mason laughed anyway. It was an empty sound, but at least it existed for a brief span. The sadness in his heart needed whatever help it could get.
They stared at Theresa’s room in silence, knowing they would never see it again.
“Hey,” Mason said, “the upside is that you’ve always wanted to live in San Francisco. Weird that it’s going to be the new capitol.”
“This wasn’t exactly the scenario I’d envisioned.”
Mason nodded in slow motion. “I know.”
“Do you think life will ever be normal again?” she asked.
“I hope so.”
He knew it would never be like it was. He knew that world was gone forever. Whatever came next might aspire toward similar ends, but whatever it became, it would undoubtedly be different.
Because every result was a combination of the innumerable conditions that preceded it. And the world they now faced had been fundamentally altered. Whatever came next would grow from that changed soil.
Beth’s expression darkened. Moisture welled in the corners of her eyes.
“What’re you thinking about?” he asked.
“We need to check on my parents on the way north,” she said. “They might still be alive.”
“We will,” he said, without knowing if the diversion was actually possible. He had no idea about the refueling situation or any number of other factors that might preclude another waypoint in the journey.
The not knowing didn’t matter.
It was a dilemma that didn’t require an immediate solution. It could wait a few minutes. And with only seconds remaining of their old lives, the future seemed far away.
Captain Whitaker appeared in the doorway.
“We’ve got contact outside. It’s time to go. Now.”
Beth scooped up Mr. Piddles.
“Ma’am, the President didn’t say anything about a cat.”
“He’s going. It’s not up for discussion.”
Beth marched past the captain staring holes into him as she went.
Mason passed him with a lopsided grin. “She loves animals.”
Mason followed her out of the house they’d spent so much time, money, and energy making their own. As much as his heart mourned the loss, the depths of his soul appreciated a more important truth.
He still had his family.
Billions of people had died or lost those they loved. Incalculable loss. Incalculable suffering.
And yet he still had the two things that mattered most.
His daughter and his wife.
While Theresa was still very sick, the serum was apparently working because her fever had subsided and she was again responsive.
He helped Beth into the chopper and climbed in behind. Six trash bags were crammed into the rear area. One each for Mason, Beth, Theresa, Elio, Noor, and Maria.
The President motioned for Mason to return to the empty seat next to him.
Mason sat down and secured his seat belt. He accepted the headset offered by Captain Whitaker.
“Take us back to the capital,” the President said over comms.
“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.
The President turned to Mason. “Mr. West.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
Mr. President?
Too weird, but being surrounded by an elite team of special forces operators lent a certain gravitas to the claim.
“You’ve saved my life on two occasions. You seem to have a knack for it.”
Mason had no interest in gratitude or back-patting. His daughter was still very sick and, despite receiving the serum, still had a hard recovery ahead.
“Sir, no thanks are necessary.”
“I wasn’t going to thank you. I was going to offer you a job.”
Mason’s head spun, seemingly faster than the rotors as the chopper lifted into the air. The pilot yawed to the north and picked up speed while continuing to climb. Far below, Mason watched as a pack of deltas stood in the street, looking up at the beings that, from their perspective, must’ve seemed like gods.
Fragile gods, to be certain.
“A job, sir?” Mason asked.
“A position in the Presidential Protective Division.”
“Sir,” Captain Whitaker cut in, “Alpha team is more than capable of attending to that duty.”
“Captain, your skills are required for higher priority missions.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But your safety is the highest priority.”
“This isn’t a discussion, Captain,” the President replied with an edge of impatience creeping into his voice. “Besides, it’s high time we reconstituted the Secret Service and its mission.”
The President turned back to Mason. “What do you say? Will you keep me alive while I go about the dangerous business of rebuilding civilization?”
It was insane to even consider. And yet, it made perfect sense. He’d had over a decade in the close protection business and many years in the Marine Corps before that. He knew how to save a life, and he knew how to take one.
If this man could bring mankind back from the brink, then he deserved everything Mason had to offer.
Even his own life, if it came to that.
Beth wouldn’t like it, but he didn’t really have a choice.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
THE END OF BOOK 2
Turn the page for The Fragile Hope, book 3 in the Edge of Survival series.
The Fragile Hope - Book 3
1
The Divine Mercy Monastery
Marin County, California
LELAND ROBERTS shaped the clay so that it matched the vision in his head. It was Go
d’s work but it was also a child’s work. Molding the plasticized material was no different than playing with the brightly colored clay that had happily occupied so many hours of his youth.
No.
It was different.
A child sculpted clay made of basic household ingredients.
Lee sculpted clay made of seventy-six percent pentaerythritol tetranitrate.
A man had obligations no child could fathom. Being an extraordinary man, Lee had obligations that would’ve crushed a less righteous soul. Such was the burden of a Godly man living through the end of times.
That was one of the reasons the previous abbot, Father Aemon, had to go. He didn’t have the depth of faith that Lee did. The blind old man had been stooped with age and infirmity. He didn’t have the strength to do what needed to be done.
Some of the Brothers still whispered about the circumstances surrounding Lee’s ascendance to head of the monastery.
If only they knew the truth.
He finished working the clay into a tube shape and attached it to the stump that was all that remained of the ring finger on his left hand. The heretics had long ago cut it off to get at the gold ring his wife had given him on their wedding day.
He stared at the fake finger in the bright light of the lamp above his head. A phantom itch in the missing digit tickled his brain. He scratched at the corresponding spot on the clay and found no satisfaction.
After the outbreak two months ago, the dark years of doubt and suffering finally made sense.
Losing the wedding band had been a sign that his earthly vows were no longer important. The concurrent loss of the finger had further signified that he was destined to be devoted to God and no other. It was so clear in retrospect.
The virus that almost wiped out humanity two months ago had been a revelation in so many ways.
Mankind had fallen into idolatry. It had worshipped technology and the easy pleasures of the modern world. The Delta Virus burned away the sinful scourge. And yet, the city to the south was already slithering its way back toward damnation.
San Francisco, the new Soddom and Gomorrah, promised a return to what God manifestly had condemned. Leading the effort was their President, Gabriel Cruz. He was as relentless a man as Lee had ever met. If anyone could drag humanity back into sin, it was him.
And so the head of the snake had to be cut off.
The devil couldn’t be allowed to remain in the new Garden of Eden.
If only Cynthia had understood it as Lee did, perhaps she could’ve avoided damnation. But her willful defiance and subsequent infidelity ensured God’s wrath.
Lee remembered her face and words like the moment was again unfolding in front of his eyes.
The look of shock that quickly twisted into scorn.
Lee, why the hell do you care? You haven’t cared about me for years!
He prayed every morning and every night that she was not beyond redemption.
Lee pushed the dark thought away. He studied the clay finger, working details into the knuckles and nail. The bright lamp above cast a shadow on the work table below. The black silhouette of his left hand appeared whole. As if he hadn’t endured the torture that still haunted his dreams more nights than not.
Outside the halo of the lamp, the rest of the small room remained cloaked in darkness. He preferred it that way. There were no windows with changing light to interrupt the meditation. There was no clock to bother him with the passing of minutes or hours.
The work filled him with the Holy Spirit. Finishing it meant a return to the everyday world. A return to the phantom pain in his head that doctors had never understood and never cured. It was only in these moments of timeless contemplation that it submerged below his awareness.
Free of pain for the most part, Lee couldn’t help but smile.
That was a mistake.
The patchwork of scars that covered the right half of his face ached as the mottled skin tried to follow the muscles underneath. It had never completely healed. It was always oozing fluid or leaking blood. He pulled a handkerchief from under his robe and dabbed at the raw skin.
A jolt of pain zipped down his spine but he didn’t so much as flinch. He was not new to suffering.
Lee pulled the clay finger off his stump and continued with the work. He added more clay, pinching the edges to create a suitable horizontal post.
Time passed as he slowly fashioned the material into a shape that would change the world. He put the final touches on it and then held it up to examine.
A cross.
A symbol of suffering and of redemption.
But it had not always been just a symbol. It had once been a tool. And so it would be again.
This cross would be his sacrifice.
His final act of faith.
Lee opened a small cardboard box of quarter-inch ball bearings. He pulled them out one at a time and pressed them into the surface of the clay in an unbroken line of ornamentation. He had never been much of an artist, but this was turning out better than he could’ve imagined.
Such was the power of the Holy Spirit.
He watched as motes of dust drifted through the cone of bright light. Appearing out of the void, sparkling for a short time in the light, and then once again disappearing into darkness. Such was the course of things.
Both motes and men.
It would take many hours yet to cover the cross in ball bearings. Several coats of primer and then gold spray paint would complete the project. With it attached to the top of his staff, it would become just another symbol carried by a holy man.
A symbol had power.
Especially when it contained over a pound of Semtex covered with hundreds of small metal balls.
The right time for wielding it would reveal itself.
Faith would show him the way.
The door to the small outbuilding swung open. A shaft of light cut into the room.
Was it morning already?
Lee grimaced at the interruption, at the painful throbbing that again resumed everywhere and nowhere at once inside his head.
“Sorry to interrupt, Father, but it’s time for the morning prayers.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Brother Ryan.”
The right time would come. His obligation was to be ready when it did.
2
The Green Zone
San Francisco, California
MASON WEST ran his fingers along the chainlink fence that kept deltas out of the secured section of San Francisco. Mostly kept them out, which was a big problem. The other problem was that he was spending today of all days thinking about any of this when tomorrow was less than one day away.
Nine miles of perimeter fencing enclosed just over four square miles of what was officially called the Green Zone. The safe area occupied less than one-tenth of the land area of the original city. Further expansion had been put on hold until the necessary infrastructure caught up to the demands of the current space and population.
The western border ran along Divisadero north to the shore and south to Fell Street. The southern border ran along Fell and bumped out to Harrison over to Third Street. The eastern border ran up Third, along Kearny, then a portion of Columbus Avenue and finally cut north to the shore just west of Pier Thirty-Nine.
Forty thousand people lived within its confines. The official number was ninety percent occupancy. If refugees kept trickling in, and there was no reason to expect they wouldn’t, they’d have to expand again into the Red Zone.
Which was easier said than done.
Every reclaimed block involved the risk of injury, infection, death, or worse for every officer involved in the operation.
And clearing and incorporating a block into the Green Zone was not a small operation.
There had been several security forays into the streets and skyscrapers of The Financial District east of Kearny, but it had quickly become apparent that the city didn’t have enough manpower to properly clear and hold block after block of th
e massive structures.
So the towering pinnacles of modern engineering were left to decay.
The northern perimeter along the shore was less an unbroken line and more a patchwork of fencing, barricades, and security checkpoints.
No delta incursions had come from that direction so there was less urgency about finishing that border.
Mason didn’t like it, but when everything was a top priority, something had to give.
He stared south through the fence on Fell Street at the city beyond. The Red Zone. A thick fog concealed everything beyond a couple of blocks. The rest of the city, indeed the rest of the world, wasn’t safe. No one went outside the wire without an armed escort and a damned good reason.
The fence itself was fourteen feet high. The first four feet comprised of heavy concrete barriers. Eight feet of thick chainlink fence was anchored to the barriers. Tight rings of razor wire lined the top making the perimeter a formidable obstacle for a human with minimal intelligence.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t as good at stopping ones with normal intelligence. Which was the reason they were considering potential upgrades.
The voice he’d been trying to ignore for the last hour spoke again.
“Deltas broke through last night and killed a man! President Cruz had to institute a curfew for the safety of all citizens. I’m surprised you can’t appreciate the necessity.”
Speaking of humans with minimal intelligence.
Shane Fowler.
Now Police Chief Fowler after the death of the previous chief made the position available.
At forty-six, he was eleven years older than Mason, and yet he exuded the emotional maturity of a teenager. Short-man syndrome certainly played a prominent role. He seemed to have two modes: total bootlicker around the President, blustering bully everywhere else.
If he polished the four gold stars on each of his lapels any more, he’d wear holes in the thin metal.
Mason refused to address him as Chief Fowler. Having been a sergeant in the Marine Corps himself, he respected rank and what it did for organizational efficiency.
