The REIGN: Out of Tribulation

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  Without warning, Major Maxwell stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, under the shadow of a maple tree with half of its branches torn off. While Pittsburgh had missed some of the catastrophic events that had leveled other cities, it had seen fighting just like every other city in the country. The storefront next to where they stood had been boarded up and one piece of plywood had been pulled loose and left propped against the tan, brick wall. The Major seemed to be listening, perhaps for someone following them. When he was satisfied, he turned abruptly and stepped through the opening in the plywood.

  Once inside, Rodney could see a light farther inside the building. Surprised by this venue, he began to wonder just how small this gathering would be. But, when they crossed the old store display room, into the interior of the abandoned building, Major Maxwell looked around again, then stomped his foot on a hollow place in the floor. The floor next to him moved, lifting and sliding to the side. Just then, two more men entered through the displaced plywood on the street and the Major froze.

  “Evening, Major.” A tall African American man with a shaved head greeted him.

  The Major relaxed, recognizing the voice and outline of a fellow soldier. “Barnes, you’re just in time.”

  Barnes and his friend followed Rodney and the Major down steep, pine stairs into a well-lit room hidden under the abandoned store. This was more of what Rodney had expected. Nearly a hundred people packed the room, mostly men, standing in twos or threes, talking casually. In the front of the room, a podium and projection screen waited for the meeting to begin. The scene recalled numberless briefings in secret locations during the last war. But Rodney fought a growing sense of the absurdity of reusing the methods of the last war to fight the next. He remembered also that, in fact, they didn’t win the last war using these tactics, rather they merely held off defeat until the new King arrived and dispatched the old Dictator.

  Major Maxwell introduced Rodney to a dark haired, thin and intense younger man named Rudy, no last name provided. From the way the Major said it, Rodney could guess that this was not even a real first name and that no last name had been manufactured to complete the alias.

  Rudy looked hard at Rodney, as if trying to read his mind. Rodney flinched slightly under the intense gaze.

  “You fought in the resistance?” Rudy asked him.

  “Yes, I did,” Rodney said, feeling some resentment about the scrutiny.

  “The resistance isn’t over,” Rudy said solemnly.

  Rodney nodded. “I can see that.” He looked around the room, wondering how many of these people were delegates to the congress. He decided against asking and risking sounding too curious.

  “Take a seat, the briefing is about to begin,” Rudy said to Major Maxwell.

  Always skeptical of those he called “spooks,” Rodney felt extremely self-conscious trying to act like one. He expected to be found out any minute, so Rudy’s apparent distrust was amplified in Rodney’s mind and his heartbeat increased over the already-accelerated rate it had reached when they entered the abandoned building.

  A tall, broad-chested man with short, slicked-back, steel-gray hair walked to the front of the room, accompanied by two younger men. They all wore military fatigues like those worn by the resistance. The sight of those uniforms in this context ricocheted Rodney from self-consciousness to familiarity to discomfort. Dragging the resistance into this struggle turned a resonating tone into a dull thud, for him. The fight against the Dictator was right and true, this was simply ridiculous.

  The man at the podium called for attention in a stern and commanding voice. The noise in the room stepped down to half and then tapered entirely, when the last people in the room realized who stood waiting for their attention.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m General Morton Hardesty of the Pennsylvania resistance. You are now in one of our secret, and secure, locations that has been in use for nearly a year now, by the Western Pennsylvania Command. To my right, is Colonel Matthew Parker, to my left Colonel Samuel Jefferson. We serve as your hosts and in no way represent any broader command than that which has been formed and maintained here in the State of Pennsylvania. We will leave it to civilian leadership to make decisions regarding a broader resistance movement, which is, in part, the reason for this gathering. Now, let me introduce someone working in the intelligence section of the resistance, Florence Haymer, from the New England Command.”

  A stout woman, of fifty or so, stood from the front row and stepped quickly to the podium. Her short-cropped hair, stern demeanor and military posture fit well in this gathering, even if the General introduced her as non-military.

  Ms. Haymer said, “Thank you, General. Tonight we want to summarize some of what we’ve learned about the strengths and intentions of the enemy and to hear from those of you who represent distant regions of the country, for confirmation or modification of conclusions we have begun to formulate.”

  Rodney glanced around casually, looking for other uniforms, any sign of where the others in the room came from, and he wondered if he would be asked to speak. If so, what would he say? He hoped for plenty of time to absorb what Ms. Haymer and others considered relevant intelligence. As he thought about it, he first felt as if reporting on the immortals would be a betrayal. But further thought led him to conclude that no amount of information from him would actually threaten them in any way.

  As Ms. Haymer summarized her data regarding the number of “aliens” observed in the seven states from which she had reports, she speculated that the population of enemy outstripped that of the humans, especially when factoring in video evidence from Jerusalem. She estimated that there were, “several hundred million in the immediate Jerusalem area at any given time. Additionally, concentrations of the aliens have been documented near some of the dead zones, such as the volcano in Yellowstone and the bombing zones around New York City and Washington D. C.”

  Rodney had never stopped to speculate on the population of the immortals, but he suspected that any numbers proposed in this gathering could be wildly inaccurate. While Ms. Haymer made brief mention of the extreme mobility of the immortals, she didn’t seem to take that factor as seriously as Rodney thought appropriate. Though he was curious about the numbers, from a military standpoint, even a rough estimate made no difference, given that no one could kill any number of these enemies.

  When Ms. Haymer finished her presentation, others from around the country followed with further data and Rodney could see that he would not be expected to speak in this meeting. The agenda and the speakers had been preset and he was just there to listen. While this relieved much of his stress, he felt another disconnect between this meeting and the resistance to the Dictator. This current effort seemed to lack the same democratic methods.

  After the seventh presenter on the subject of numbers—a small, white haired man from Oregon, who, in spite of his hair, was no older than Rodney—the presentations turned to questions of military capabilities. Rodney had to suppress laughter at this point. Thinking of the immortals in terms of military capabilities conjured the image of Lilly rocketing out of the garden. Allowing his mind to wander in this direction, he remembered also the two immortals who appeared from nowhere and stopped the vehicle that pursued him and Emma on the road to Barneston. But the peaceful Hyo and Young just would not fit into any military scenarios Rodney could imagine.

  Pulling his attention back to the speakers at the front of the room, Rodney startled slightly when a man two rows in front of him raised his hand and interrupted, before being acknowledged. The man shouted, “When are you going to address things like the fact that these aliens cannot be killed, or that they have the power to disarm our weapons?”

  A murmur stirred all around interrupter and Ms. Haymer stepped up to the microphone, next to the man from Oregon. She spoke abruptly. “Please save your questions for the end of the presentations. We will address such speculations in due course.”

  The tone and volume of the murmur elevated
and the man who raised his hand stood up. “Well isn’t all this other stuff pretty irrelevant if you can’t tell us that you’ve found a way to kill these people?”

  “The aliens,” Ms. Haymer said, correcting the word “people,” from the disruptive man, “have deceived some into drawing irrational conclusions and believing ridiculous myths.”

  “Has anyone here seen one of them killed?” The man persisted.

  General Hardesty stood up to attempt to bring the gathering back under control and Ms. Haymer handed him the microphone.

  “You are out of order, sir. Please take your seat or I will have you removed from this meeting,” the General warned.

  Major Maxwell squirmed in his chair, restraining himself like an unbroken horse. Rodney couldn’t tell exactly what was bothering him, until the high-strung veteran grabbed at his chest and pitched forward into the back of the chair in front of him. He struck his head on the sharp, metal edge of that chair and bounced toward Rodney, with a thud from flesh on metal that rang out for a couple of seconds. Rodney caught the Major around the throat and across his shoulders, trying to help him ease toward the floor. He turned the Major face up as he slid the remaining foot to the concrete. After swelling purple, a finger-sized lump on the Major’s forehead burst and blood flowed in all directions, into his hair, down his temples and into his tightly closed eyes.

  “He’s having a heart attack,” Rodney said out, as all eyes turned toward the disturbance.

  For those who didn’t see it begin with the Major grasping his chest, Rodney’s assessment seemed absurd. A heart attack wouldn’t explain all that blood on the man’s face.

  “Heart attack?” Someone shouted.

  “What happened to his head?” Another voice rose with the rising crowd noise.

  “Did somebody hit him?” asked a third voice. Eyes turned toward the man who had been pressing questions to the podium. He was a few feet away, was it possible for him to have done something?

  “Is there ambulance service in the city?” the man seated next to Rodney asked. He had seen the beginning of the attack and ignored the distractions from those who didn’t.

  Rodney started doing CPR on the Major, who had lost consciousness by this time.

  “What’s he doing to him?” Someone called from the back of room, seeing people standing and struggling for position, as if they were watching a fight.

  A woman in fatigues pushed her way through the onlookers to help, but her brusque movement triggered one of the men to push her back, as if to protect the Major. The woman started to shout that she was a nurse and wanted to help, but her voice faded in the mounting chaos.

  Rodney checked for a pulse, but could find none. He resumed CPR, hoping someone was calling for help.

  Then, in the midst of the bedlam, a man and a woman parted the onlookers to Rodney’s right, chairs screeching on the floor, a few of them toppling over as people fell back involuntarily. A strong hand grabbed Rodney on the shoulder. He looked up. Instantly, he knew that this was one of the immortals, and he stood up and moved aside.

  While the strange man moved people back, the woman with him knelt next to the Major and put her hand on his forehead, covering the gash, but not in a way that one would expect to stop bleeding by pressure. Rodney couldn’t see her face or hear her saying anything, but he could see the effect of her work. The Major opened his eyes and looked up at her. The look on his face resembled an infant looking up at his mother. Rodney couldn’t help but smile. Then he started to laugh, as the woman stood up and stepped back. The man with her held out a hand to assist the Major to his feet.

  The Major stood up, wiping blood off his face with his hand and wiping his hand on his shirt. Someone gave him a paper towel and he made a better effort at cleaning up his face. When he removed the towel, Rodney could see no cut on his forehead. And, of course, he had entirely recovered from the heart attack.

  As Rodney stopped laughing audibly, a low hum washed over the room, people murmuring and whispering to themselves and to each other. Those close enough to see the miraculous recovery of the Major, gasped or exclaimed under their breath. Never had a miracle been so poorly received in any of Rodney’s experiences, but that too seemed funny to him and his laughter escalated again.

  Major Maxwell looked at Rodney and said, “What happened?”

  Rodney stopped laughing and spoke up. “You were dying, man. Your heart had stopped and you were severely cut across the forehead. And now you’re good as new.” He finished with a slightly drunken peak to his voice and returned to laughing quietly at the absurdity of the whole situation.

  The immortals had stepped away from the Major and disappeared just as they had appeared.

  A man who saw them vanish said, “Hey, it was aliens. Those two people that helped him were aliens. Did you see ‘em just disappear?” he said to a woman standing near him. She nodded, struck silent by what she had witnessed.

  Rodney’s humor turned to derision. These people were ridiculous in his eyes, as this little object lesson had demonstrated. He suddenly felt a strong urge to get out of that room. Pushing past dumbstruck bystanders, he headed for the stairs.

  “Let me outta here,” he said to a tall, muscular, young man stationed by the ladder. The young soldier obeyed Rodney’s order and climbed the stairs, flipping the latch and pushing open the sliding door.

  Someone called out: “Hey don’t let him leave. He was working with those aliens.”

  Rodney turned toward his accuser, both feet on the stairs already. He said mockingly, “And I was supposed to resist them while they saved the Major’s life, as if I could resist them?” His derisive tone did nothing to endear him to the crowd, but the soldier at the door had already climbed up and checked to see that the exit was clear. His dull, robot-like obedience worked to Rodney’s advantage, as a furor arose down below. With half a dozen quick steps up the steep stairs, Rodney hoisted himself out of the door. He thought he felt someone grab at his ankle as he jumped clear, but he couldn’t be sure of that. In any case, he managed to get out of the door, nodded to the young soldier and headed for the storefront. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if things might go badly for Major Maxwell, having benefited from the “alien’s” power. However, when he slowed he could hear the General calling the room to order, as if he intended to continue the meeting on its original course.

  Rodney shook his head at this and stepped through the opening in the plywood, onto the dark street. He knew the approximate direction of the bridge where he could cross the river back to downtown and he enjoyed a brisk walk in the cool night air, still chuckling to himself, as he passed through darkened neighborhoods, toward the well-lit bridge.

  On the bridge, where he could be confident of a good signal, he dialed Emma on his mobile phone. After two rings she picked up.

  “Hello, dear, it’s me,” said Rodney.

  “Yes, it is you,” Emma said, “It’s great to hear your voice. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, safe and sound. I’m missing you.”

  “I’m missing you too, very much. I have some news that I just can’t wait to tell you,” she said.

  “News? Good news?”

  “Yes, good news, miraculous news,” Emma said with the slightest uncertainty in her voice.

  “Are you pregnant?” Rodney asked, on a hunch.

  There was silence for a moment, then Emma said, “How did you know?”

  Rodney laughed. “That’s great news! How do you feel?”

  Emma laughed too, relieved at Rodney’s response. “I feel fine. I knew something was different with me and I haven’t heard of anyone else being sick. I went to see the new nurse-midwife in town. She did the test and it’s for sure.”

  “That’s wonderful! Well, I guess we better get married then, huh?”

  “That will be nice,” Emma said, warmed by Rodney’s good humor, but not in a jocular mood herself.

  Rodney had finished crossing the bridge. He slowed down at the end of
it, before descending into the city, staying with the strong phone signal. “So how’s the farm?” he asked.

  “Really good,” Emma said. “We’re gonna need to sell some of the veggies, and I’m learning about canning. And, oh, Lilly stopped by. She knew right away that I was pregnant.”

  “That makes sense,” Rodney said. “She is Mother Nature after all.”

  Emma laughed a little. “Daniel misses you. He’d never say anything, but I can tell. I think it’s extra hard ‘cause Steve moved out.”

  “Have you heard from Steve?” Rodney asked.

  “I saw him in town yesterday. He’s settled into a house near the school. He seems real happy, still getting his weight back. I think he may have met a woman, from the way he looked.”

  “You can tell that from the way he looked?” Rodney sounded skeptical.

  “Women know.”

  Rodney knew he couldn’t argue with that. “So, is Tina around these days?”

  “Daniel sees her every day in town. He’s over at her house now. Her mother invited him to dinner. Tina promised to help me with canning, she wants to learn too.”

  “That sounds like a good way to get to know her,” said Rodney. “And maybe she could take some of veggies to her mom.”

  Emma changed tone. “Tell me what’s going on there. Is it like being part of history? That’s what Daniel wanted to know.”

  Rodney described some of the proceedings and then told her the story of that evening, right up to his escape from the underground briefing center.

  “Oh my, Rodney. Please tell me you won’t take any more chances like that.”

  “Yes, my dear. I promise. No more espionage for me. I’m strictly civilian from here on.”

  “Thank you. And our baby thanks you too.”

  “Oh yeah?” Rodney laughed. “Is that another thing women know?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Tell the baby I love him or her too.”

  “I will.”

  “Goodnight, Emma.”