President Martinez considered the information for a few minutes, then nodded. “Seems like the best option,” she relented, as she stared at the big screen. She turned to look at Doctors Chang and Bowman. “Are you two sure you’re up for this?”
Andrew didn’t need to look at his colleague to know her answer. Both of them had chosen to take the incredibly hard, ridiculously long, and stupidly expensive, road that led to a degree in the medical field, and they’d each done it for the same reason: to do what they could to minimize suffering, to help people survive and overcome their ailments, and return to lives free from pain and filled with promise.
And, more importantly, filled with hope.
“Absolutely,” he replied.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Oklahoma City Protective Zone
Day 0
Less than two blocks from the Oklahoma State Capitol, the Governor's Mansion sat surrounded by a four-foot high black wrought iron fence. Inside the short brick wall, wide expanses of overgrown grass countered either side of the long driveway that led to the big, three story, 14,000 square foot structure. The building’s Dutch-Colonial style, combined with its Carthage limestone exterior, gave the building a majestic look, one that commanded respect and admiration.
With its expansive interior divided into 12 large rooms, including a library, parlor, and a grand ballroom capable of seating up to sixty people, it made perfect sense for the Protective Zone’s Commanding Officer, Colonel Sam Walters, to designate it as both his primary residence and the Operations Center.
Although the building had five bedrooms, aside from the Master Bedroom which Walters made use of, none of the others were in use. Instead, the overnight Duty Officer (a position that rotated daily) slept on a small cot in the study that sat next to the library. ‘Can’t have you all the way up on the second floor if an emergency arises,’ Colonel Walters had explained to Major Paxson, the Senior Watch Officer, when the assignments and rotations were established.
While most nights in the mansion were quiet and uneventful, leaving Walters plenty of undisturbed time to plan and strategize, the days were a much different story. Military operations were in full swing, with plans for everything from stocking and organizing the food distribution centers to using bulldozers on the far edges of town to dig mass grave sites were brought to the Colonel for approval. From the moment his ‘official’ workday started at eight a.m. (though his unofficial workday started at least an hour and a half prior to that), the day was a constant blur of activity as numerous men and women, both military and civilian, came and went. In short, the place was organized chaos.
And Colonel Walters wouldn’t have it any other way.
His one reprieve during the day was his lunch ‘hour,’ a ninety-minute break in the middle of the day during which he changed into his PT gear and made his way to the bedroom that had been converted to a makeshift gym, where he lifted weights for thirty minutes and ran on the treadmill for thirty minutes. Afterwards, he showered and got back into his uniform before returning to his office in the library, where his lunch sat waiting for him on his desk. He’d wolf down his food between meetings as he dove headlong into the afternoon rush of visitors.
Wiping crumbs from the edges of his mouth and moustache, Walters picked up one of the inventory reports he’d asked for and began to review it. Halfway through the first page, he noticed that the supply of flour was lower than previously projected. Though not an issue yet, if the rate of consumption continued without an influx of additional supplies, it could become one.
Grabbing his red pen, he was in the process of underlining it when he heard the roar of a crowd cheering somewhere nearby.
He looked over at Sergeant Ferrell, the Admin Support Specialist that helped him keep his calendar organized.
“What was that?”
The young black man nodded off in the general direction of the State Capitol building. “Mr. Clark is having another meeting with some of the citizens.”
Walters’s brow furrowed in concern. “That sounds like a lot of people,” he said.
Sergeant Ferrell nodded, tilted his head slightly in thought, then pointed upwards. “You know, Sir, we can probably see how big the group is from the roof.”
“Good idea,” Walters replied, as he rose from his chair. Following the other man out of the room, Walters thought back to his first meeting with Jeremiah Clark two weeks prior.
“Who’s next?” Walters asked, setting aside the alphabetized list of military men and women assigned to him. He’d already made the selections he needed for the mission he was planning, and felt good about them. With that done, he found that he had thirty minutes of available time for office visits before his midday break and P.T. session.
“Mister Clark is here to see you, Sir,” Sergeant Ferrell replied, grimacing slightly. Ferrell was familiar with the Colonel’s response to the man’s continued attempts to gain an audience.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Walters took a deep breath. Clark had requested a meeting several times since arriving at the Protective Zone the week prior. Each time, Walters had waved him off, using the excuse of being too busy and promising that they’d be able to sit down and talk soon. To the man’s credit, he was understanding and accommodating each time, offering the Colonel a smile that was simultaneously comforting and a little bit unsettling, as if the man knew something.
The day’s schedule, though full, was the most routine one to date. No critical issues to deal with, no life-or-death decisions that needed to be made, and, best of all, no telephone conferences with the President, the SecState, or Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Decisions had been made, things were in motion, and it was now his job to make sure things would be ready and secure when the Doctors and the immune child arrived.
And everything was on track.
Which meant there were no excuses available for use.
Walters sighed. “Okay. Send him in,” he relented, as he reached for a stack of papers on his desk to straighten. It had always been important to him that he presented himself as organized and neat, and though the papers on his desk were mostly handwritten memos made by or given to him, he still wanted his desk to look presentable.
Hearing the man enter the room, Walters set the papers aside and stood up to shake the man’s hand. The tall, dark-haired man paused at the door and spoke to the men with him. “Please, wait here, brothers. I’d like to speak to the Colonel alone.” Stepping through the doorway, he strode confidently over to Walters desk and extended his hand.
“Very nice to finally sit down with you…” he pointed at the black oakleaf on Walters’s uniform, “Colonel, correct?”
“That’s correct, Mister Clark, but please, call me Sam.”
“Okay, Sam, and in return, please call me Jeremiah.”
“Will do.” Walters said, lowering himself back down into his chair. Motioning for Jeremiah to sit, he said, “Well, with that out of the way, what can I do for you?”
Lowering his tall frame into the chair, Jeremiah smiled. “I would like to talk to you about two things, actually. The first is simple,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs, “my family and I need a bigger residence hall.”
Walters frowned and shook his head a half turn. “I’m a bit lost here, Jeremiah. The building you’re currently in is what we call Residence Hall Three, correct? What used to be a Travelodge, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
Grabbing his notes, the Colonel quickly found the information he was looking for. “That building has eighty-four rooms, each set up for double occupancy, so that would give it a capacity of one hundred and sixty-eight people, more if there are children under the age of five, who would be required to remain in the room with their parents or guardians.”
Jeremiah nodded, still smiling. “That’s all true, sir, but forty-four of those rooms were already occupied when my family and I arrived. We are quickly beginning to run out of space.”
The Colonel sat
back in his chair, confused. “I’m sorry, Jeremiah. I’m a bit confused. How are you running out of space? Did you and your wife have a child recently?”
Jeremiah smiled as he clasped his hands together in his lap. “While young Judith is pregnant, she’s not due for another four months. No, I’m referring to my ‘larger’ family, which has grown and continues to grow as more and more people come to me to listen to the word of God.”
Walters leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. It was making sense now. ‘Cult leader,’ he thought. “So you’re a preacher?” he asked.
Jeremiah’s eyes met Sam’s and held them. “Some would say that. I believe that there’s more to my relationship with those who are with me than just religion.”
“I see,” Walters said, looking down at his desk. ‘Yep. Cult leader,’ he thought. “So how many more rooms do you need? We’ll be opening another Residence Hall nearby soon. We can put some of your family there, so they’ll be nearby,” he offered.
Jeremiah shook his head slowly, then spread his hands. “That’s what I was hoping to avoid, Sam. Splitting up my family.” He brought his hands together in front of him and pressed his palms together. “We all eat together, spend time together, and most importantly, pray together. The members of my family need to be close to one another.” After a short pause, he added, “Most of all, they feel the need to be close to me, and I, them.”
Though Colonel Walters was a bit frustrated by the man’s unwillingness to compromise, he decided that it was in his best interest to relent and let the man have what he wanted. Plus, was it really that bad to have a small community of Christians forming?
Shrugging, he said, “Well, the new building is a Homewood Suites. One hundred and sixty rooms. That should be more than big enough. How about we move you all in there together?”
Jeremiah smiled. “That would be wonderful, Sam.” Leaning forward, he extended his hand. When Walters shook it, Jeremiah added, “thank you so much. You’re a good man.”
Walters grinned awkwardly. It was the biggest compliment he’d received since he’d been put in charge of the Protective Zone. It was damn near the end of the world, and though he provided people food, shelter, and protection, somehow they still managed to complain.
Leaning back again, Sam Walters smiled again. “Okay, now, you said there were two things you wanted to discuss. What else can I do for you?”
Jeremiah twisted in his chair and looked towards the windows behind him, which Walters faced from his seat. “Do you mind?” he asked.
Surprised by the request, Sam nodded as he gestured towards the window. “Please.”
Jeremiah rose from his chair and strode across the room to the large windows that looked out onto the property at the rear of the mansion. Placing his hands on the windowsill, he stared out at the world beyond for several moments before speaking.
“You’ve done an amazing job, Colonel.”
Walters stared at the man’s back for a moment, wondering where he was going with the conversation. “Thank you,” he said finally. Before he realized it, he was on his feet and headed towards the window. “I’m just doing what was asked of me.”
Turning slightly, Jeremiah looked back at him and offered a smile. “And you’ve done very, very well. I’m sure the military leaders you report to would be truly impressed if they saw what you’ve accomplished. The people here are safe, fed, and comfortable.” Reaching out, he clasped Walters’s shoulder, looking down at him as he did so, making Sam realize how much taller he was. “The people here are lucky to have you in charge, Sam.”
Walters shook his head. “Thanks, but I don’t think very many people here would agree with you.”
Jeremiah released his grip on his shoulder and turned away, looking back out the window again. “They’re just frightened, Sam,” he said, simply. “Most of them are still waiting to wake up from this nightmare. Their minds are barely able to keep it together after everything they’ve faced, so they go back to what feels natural.”
Walters tilted his head to the side as he considered the man’s words. In many ways, they made sense. “You think?”
Jeremiah nodded. Looking back again, he grinned. “Definitely.” Using his left hand, he urged Sam to join him at the window. Walters did so, momentarily feeling as if he, and not Jeremiah, was the one who’d asked for this visit.
“You see, Sam, you have to understand that people have lost who they were.”
“I... don’t,” Walters admitted, as he struggled to follow what Jeremiah was suggesting.
Dealing with people had never been his strong suit, and he knew it. Sure, he was great at leading men and women towards accomplishing the tasks they were assigned, but when it came to their personal lives, he simply struggled to care. When they had personal issues, he simply expected them to leave it at home, no matter how bad the issues were. As Captain Trahan had told him back at Westpoint, if it wasn’t issued as part of their gear, it didn’t factor into getting the job done, relationships included. That stuff wasn’t part of their jobs, and it wasn’t part of his job to take those things into consideration when it came to executing the mission.
Jeremiah went on. “Imagine you’re some mid-level executive, Sam. You’ve got an assigned parking spot, a nice office, a house with a nice yard and all the comforts you enjoy. You eat well, you have the money to spoil your spouse and kids, and overall, your life is pretty good, thanks to all the hard work you put in.”
Jeremiah brought his hand up and snapped his fingers. “Then, all at once, all of that is gone; taken away from you in the blink of an eye. You’re no longer a respected executive. You’ve got nothing left to do but survive. Shoot, maybe you’re no longer a husband. Maybe you’re no longer a father. Everything you were is a thing of the past.
“Now, instead of going to work in your nice car, parking in your reserved parking spot, and sitting in your own office, you’re out there,” he pointed out the window, in the direction of the housing areas, “waiting in line for your daily food rations.”
“But at least they’re safe,” Walters protested, looking off in the direction the taller man had pointed in.
Jeremiah’s voice softened as he brought his hand up and clasped Walters’s shoulder once more. “Yes, they are. And for that, they owe you a tremendous gratitude, as do I.” Looking into Sam’s eyes, Jeremiah nodded. “Thank you.”
“I - ”
Jeremiah brought his hand up, cutting him off. “I really need you to understand that I am in NO WAY criticizing anything you’ve done, Colonel.” Turning back to the window, he shook his head. “I couldn’t have done it, that’s for sure.” He continued to stare out the window for a second, then spoke again, keeping his voice low. “But, maybe I can help now.”
Surprised at the offer, Walters flinched slightly. “I, well, I mean, we can always use help. What did you have in mind?”
“How are you at dealing with people’s emotional needs, Sam?”
Surprised for the second time in less than thirty seconds, Walters hesitated. ‘How much did this guy know?’ he wondered. Taking a breath, he paused. Though his normal response to personal questions of that nature was to deflect, he felt the inexplicable urge to open up to this man, to share his secrets with him. “Not great,” he conceded, shaking his head.
Jeremiah turned to him once more and smiled. “Hey, don’t feel bad, Colonel. People are…” shaking his head, he exhaled heavily before continuing, “challenging. I’ve been trying to figure them out for years.”
“Seriously? But you’re a…” Walters realized he didn’t know what to classify the man as. Playing it safe, he said, “Father?”
Jeremiah chuckled. “Technically, my title would be ‘Pastor,’ but people call me ‘Father’ as well, because they’re part of my Family. Still, please call me Jeremiah. Now, as far as what you were curious about, yes. People are a challenge, and it’s hard enough to simply understand the few that we normally have close to us - our family, close frie
nds, significant others, for example. For me, I have a very large family, and on any given day somewhere between fifteen and twenty of them come to me, presenting their issues and asking me to listen.”
Walters feld his throat dry instinctively at the thought. ‘Dear God…’ he thought to himself.
Jeremiah continued. “And then, when they’re done laying out their problems and challenges, they look to me to do two things: one, to explain how God presents people with both challenges to test their faith and the strength and ability to overcome those challenges.
“I’m pretty good at that part,” he said, smiling widely. With a sigh, he went on, “It’s the second part that’s much, much harder, and that’s them needing me to take that first part and apply it to them specifically. I have to know them. I have to be aware of their strengths and weaknesses, their motivators and detractors, the things that give them the boost they need to get out there and conquer their fears, overcome the obstacles in their way, and accomplish the things they were previously afraid to even attempt.” Pausing, he sighed again. “It can be exhausting.”
“So why do you do it?”
Jeremiah shrugged. “It’s what I’m good at. Just like you’re good at all of this,” he said, gesturing around them. “You have your strengths, and I have mine.”
Walters nodded.
“Which is how I can help you. Let me be the one to engage the people, to listen to them and gather their concerns and needs. Then I can meet with you, say, once or twice a week to discuss them with you. If some of the things I share are things you can take care of, great. If not, at least the people will know they’re being heard.”
Walters nodded. What the man proposed made sense, but still, he barely knew the man. Was he right for the job?
‘Well, his ‘family’ has grown by nearly a dozen people in the short amount of time he’d been here, and seemed to be growing even more still. The man was clearly good at connecting with people.
Surviving Rage | Book 5 Page 5
