Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  He turned back to Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam—your family—”

  Sam angrily shook his head. “It can’t be!” he almost shouted. Bono just stared at him.

  Sam saw the anguish in his expression and it finally sunk in. He took a slow breath and held it, then unbuckled his lap belt and leaned over, falling out of the helicopter onto the cool desert sand.

  State Road 68, southern West Virginia

  After the explosion, Ammon wrestled the car to the shoulder and replaced the alternator, the starter, fuses and the battery with the one his father had placed in their grounded Faraday boxes in the car’s trunk, following the very specific written instructions his father left within each box. The battery was stored dry, and Ammon carefully poured the sulfuric acid into the battery. He positioned the battery charger’s solar panels and waited several long hours until the battery was full.

  After the battery was charged, Ammon kept driving, his eyes tearing, his hands trembling on the wheel. Luke was sitting in the backseat, holding his face on his palms. Sara looked straight ahead. She seemed not to react at all.

  The radio announcer cut back and forth from one special report to another. Everyone knew precious little about the situation in Washington, D.C., and the reports from across the rest of the nation were incalculably bad.

  There had been no communication with the president. Was he dead or alive? Congress had been in session at the time of the detonation, and most of them were certainly gone. The reports of destruction throughout the capital were simply unbelievable. There was little left inside the Beltway. Two hundred thousand, perhaps a million, who knew how many were dead?

  The U.S. government had not yet responded to an Al Jazeera report that five American cities would be destroyed, one city hit with a nuclear bomb every day for the next five days. Across America, there was panic in many city streets. The grocery stores had been raided within a few hours, leaving their shelves empty. The freeways were crammed with hordes of panicked masses fleeing all the major cities. Fuel was being hoarded, the pipelines and fuel tanks that fed each major city running dry within hours. Most places still had electricity, but in order to conserve the suddenly limited reserve of energy resources, all of the power plants had been ordered to cut back their output, leaving brownouts and blackouts across almost every state.

  The reports went on and on: riots in New York City, rumors of an impending nuclear attack on Los Angeles, news of thousands of people trampled or run over in the streets as millions tried to flee.

  Within hours, order had been replaced by chaos. The sense of invincibility that had permeated the nation for more than two hundred years had been replaced by an utter sense of pandemonium and chaos.

  All in one afternoon. After a single attack.

  The reporters kept on talking. All of the airports had been closed. No civilian air traffic was allowed to take off, and all airliners already in the air had been diverted away from the major cities to alternate landing airports. The roads leading out of New York City were completely impassable now; more than four hundred accidents had been reported on the New Jersey Turnpike alone. Hundreds of thousands could be seen walking in Seattle, Chicago and Dallas. There was pandemonium, armed men stealing people’s vehicles, siphoning the fuel right out of their gas tanks. There were shootings in Nashville, looting in Manhattan, fires reported in downtown Chicago. The Secretary of Interior was the highest ranking government official to be identified. He broadcast a desperate call for order from some unknown location, but he had not been seen on television. There were false reports of foreign terrorists taking hostages in downtown Miami . . . .

  Ammon listened, shaking his head in despair. He drove west, away from the city, away from their home. West. Toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. Toward what, he did not know.

  The anchorman suddenly cut to another reporter: a military pilot had reported flying directly over the White House, or at least he thought it was the White House, or where the White House used to be . . . .

  Sara moaned in anguish as she listened to the reporter’s voice. Ammon reached for her hand and held it painfully tight. “Remember, Mom, there’s the underground Situation Room. He would be safe down there. He’s all right, I promise,” he squeezed her hand again, trying to sound convincing.

  But Sara knew it wasn’t true.

  She knew that he was gone.

  She had lost her husband, the only man she had ever loved, the light of her life for the past twenty-five years, the man who had brought her more joy than any person had a right to ask. The father of her children, the Polaris in her life, the man who had held her, loved her and kissed the tears from her eyes.

  He was gone now. She knew that, because she felt him near. He was speaking to her as he always had. The same voice. The same manner. She almost reached out for his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to be with you, but it was supposed to end this way. Keep the faith. Keep strong. And remember, I’ll be waiting for you, Sara. And I will always be near. You will feel my breath in the morning, in the soft warmth of the sun. I will look for you in the evenings. We will be together again.”

  Sara brought her hand to her face to hide her quivering lip. “I love you, Neil,” she muttered.

  But his spirit was now gone.

  Ammon glanced over at his mother. “What did you say, Mom?” he asked.

  She turned to him, her eyes red, her cheeks stained with tears. “I said I love . . .” she answered, then glanced back at Luke. “I love you both so much!” she repeated.

  Ammon kept driving, but he had slowed to a crawl. He wiped his eyes and bit his lip and kept the car moving west.

  Luke leaned forward from the backseat and put his arms around his mom. He leaned into her shoulder and wept like a little boy. “I want my dad. I want my dad. I want my dad,” he cried.

  Sara turned around and held him. “I love you, Luke,” she said as she held his head. “Your father loves you. You know he loves you.”

  “I want my dad,” he cried again.

  TWENTY

  Mount Aatte, north of Peshawar, Pakistan

  Omar carried the young boy on his shoulders as he made his way up the final crest on the trail. It was steep and dangerous, with a vertical drop on his left that fell almost three thousand feet. The mountain was rocky and bare, and the trail cut back and forth a dozen times as it wound its way up. Omar huffed and puffed as he toiled, gasping though his footsteps remained steady as he climbed.

  A third of the way up the mountain the ridge suddenly dropped, revealing a hidden valley on the other side, a gentle canyon tucked neatly between the extended ridgeline and the mountain: rolling green hills, a small river, fruit trees, long grass. It was wet, the ground spongy and soft from the previous night’s storms. Above the river, against the mountain, the rising terrain had been leveled, a thousand years of backbreaking work turning the side of the mountain into ascending terraces, some less than ten or twelve feet across. Poppies had been planted on each terrace, and the pods were full now, plump and almost ripe. The growing season was short on the mountain, and the poppies would barely have time to mature before the first snowfalls came.

  A small group of buildings lined the river. To call the cluster of mud huts and thatch barns a village would have been an overly generous description. There was no road to the houses, no electricity, and no water except what they drew from the river.

  Omar stood at the crest of the hill where the trail broke from a thick stand of pines. Looking down on the hidden valley, he finally smiled.

  Remote. Isolated. The people who lived here were shepherds and farmers who worked the dirt with their hands. The outside world meant nothing to them. And the feeling was reciprocated—they meant nothing to the world.

  Omar relaxed for the first time in days.

  It was a very long way from home, a long way from Iran. Even farther from Saudi Arabia. He had come to another world.

  The prince would be safe h
ere.

  He adjusted the boy on his shoulders, and then started down the steep trail. The air grew warmer as he descended, but his burden was light.

  The village leader was waiting. Omar paused at the door to his home, the finest mud hut in the village. It had three tiny rooms, an indoor cook stove, and the ultimate luxury, an ancient clay pipe that drew water from the river upstream and brought it right to his front door.

  The leader was a young man, perhaps less than thirty years old, though his thick beard and sun-baked skin made it difficult for Omar to know. He sat on the floor in the corner and listened to Omar while chewing brown leaves. His face was hard, but it softened just a little as he glanced at the child.

  “You take advantage of my generosity,” the young shepherd said.

  Omar shook his head. “I bring you a gift. A chance to serve Allah. I call upon the Pashtun law of sanctuary, and that is always good.”

  The leader studied Omar and then nodded. That was true. And they were honor-bound, for Pashtun law required them to render aid to the homeless, the wounded, those who had no one else. Several times, the village leader had stood up to the Taliban, hiding young boys they had forced into service. On this matter the leader considered the Qur’an to be clear. He had a moral obligation to provide sanctuary and he would not disobey the holy word of Allah. And though the Taliban had threatened to destroy him and the village for defying them, they had not carried through with their promise. At least not yet.

  The village leader considered a moment, and then stood and walked toward the young boy. Kneeling, he smiled at him gently and held out his arms. Sensing safety, the young prince walked into his embrace.

  Omar watched, and then reached into a deep pocket under his robe. “You will keep him?” he asked, pulling out a thick wad of cash.

  The village leader glanced at the money, scowled, and looked away.

  Omar extended his hand. “Not for you. For him. His expenses—”

  “He will have no expenses that Allah will not provide. I don’t do this for you, Omar. I do this for Allah. I do this for the law.”

  Omar nodded and begged forgiveness. Then he walked toward the young prince and knelt down by him. Reaching into another pocket, he pulled out a slender gold chain, thin and fine, with a single diamond attached at the end, a beautiful star radiating slivers of light. He unlatched the chain, placed it around the boy’s neck, and kissed him on both cheeks. “I give you this to remind you of who you really are,” he said. “You are the diamond of the future. You are worth every star.”

  The boy looked at the diamond, then at Omar, and smiled wearily.

  Does he really understand? Omar wondered. Does he have any idea at all?

  He tucked the jewel under the young boy’s clothes, placing it near his chest, then pulled back and held the prince by the shoulders. They stared at each other a long moment, as if they could communicate without saying words.

  “What have I told you?” Omar finally asked him, breaking the heavy silence.

  “You will come for me,” the young prince said.

  “That is my solemn promise.”

  The boy looked at him but didn’t answer.

  “And until that day?” Omar asked.

  “I am to prepare myself.”

  “Prepare yourself for what?”

  The young boy lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, his eyes burning with a sudden light. “For the day that I will serve.”

  “Yes, for the day that you will serve. You were born to be a king. You must prepare. You must be worthy. You will reclaim the kingdom. Now, I know that is difficult for you to understand, but you are wise. Even now I can see there is wisdom and great strength in your eyes.”

  The young prince only nodded. Omar pointed at the shepherd. “You must listen to him.”

  “I will, Master.”

  Omar pressed his lips, then stood and touched the boy on his head.

  He had no sons, only daughters, and he loved this young boy as if he were his own. He would have died to protect him. He would have done anything.

  But it was time that he should go now. His presence brought danger to the village. Omar drew a long breath. Looking around the room, he wished he could think of the right words to say good-bye. In order to make it to this village with the boy, it had been necessary for Omar to leave the Prince’s mother behind. Her weakened condition was making an already arduous trek impossible. Omar was all but certain that the Princess had perished. He felt so many emotions. Then he leaned toward the child and whispered in his ear:

  And brightness like that of the noonday, shall arise to thee at evening: and when thou shalt think thyself consumed, thou shalt rise as the day star.

  And thou shalt have confidence, hope being set before thee, and being buried thou shalt sleep secure.

  Job had spoken those words such a long time ago. It wasn’t much, but he meant it, and it was all he could think of. And the words were as true now as they had ever been.

  “Hope. Always hope,” he whispered to the young prince again.

  Two Blocks south of the Interstate 495 Beltway, Kensington, Maryland

  Sara stood at the crest of the hill. Around her, leaves and bushes, generally full and green at this time of year, had turned brown and brittle. The sky was dark, with gray ash hanging in the air and a low bank of rain clouds forming on the western horizon.

  She and her sons had been wandering around the outskirts of the city, seeking information on her husband, trying to confirm his death, trying to get as close to the bomb site as they could safely get. But after it all, they had ended up here, in a wooded park on the north edge of the city, standing on a small hill that had enough elevation to look out on the burned out capital.

  Sara Brighton gazed toward the district. Farther south, the damage became more stark and terrible. If she squinted, she could make out bent metal girders and burned out cement walls in the distance. The damage was eerie and irregular, for the aircraft that had been carrying the nuclear warhead had been lower than the Saudi scientist had hoped for when the bomb went off. The blast from the heat wave had followed the contours of the ground, burning everything it touched directly but sparing those buildings that were protected behind any rising terrain. It was remarkable, almost unnatural, how some areas had been spared. Arlington National Cemetery—destroyed up to the crest of the hill, yet General Lee’s mansion and the graves on the western side of the hill had been spared. The White House and Mall—entirely destroyed, but some of the smaller buildings directly behind them had survived. Most of the government offices that housed the Congress had been destroyed, but the northern wing of the Capitol Hill building was still intact. The list went on and on, and a pattern began to emerge: areas west and south of the Potomac had been spared; east and north, turned to ash.

  Sara squinted again, then lifted her hand to shade her eyes. Luke and Ammon waited behind her, their heads bent, looking down. It was just too hard to look at, too painful, too bleak. Their mother stood without moving, then turned back to them. “I wish they would let us go down there—you know, just to see.”

  Ammon nodded, but inside he was relieved. He had seen enough—more than enough. He knew his father was dead, killed in the blast, and he didn’t feel a need to explore the place where he had died.

  Luke shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to see any more.

  It would be months, maybe much longer, before civilians would be allowed to go into any of the areas that had been affected by the blast. Out here in the suburbs, where the winds had kept the radiation at an acceptable level, refugee camps and tent cities had sprung up, but downtown was deserted except for the special military units and emergency response teams, all of them protected in radiation suits. The teams were plodding through the wreckage, looking for survivors and chronicling the damage for the day when they might be able to rebuild, or at least go in and try to retrieve some of the documents, government records, and artifacts the government needed in order to
exist.

  But the truth was, there wasn’t much left of the federal government. It would take many years and an unbelievable amount of work to recreate even a fraction of what had been lost.

  Sara thought for a moment longer and then walked toward her sons. Ammon turned toward her. “It’s time,” he said. “We’ve got to decide.”

  Sara knew that. She’d been avoiding the decision because she felt so unsure. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I really don’t—”

  Luke ran a dirty hand through his hair. For a moment he thought of Alicia, wondering if she was alive. Had her money saved her? He doubted it, but didn’t know. He thought of his other friends and loved ones, people he really cared about. What had happened to them? It was impossible to find out. Communication was nearly impossible. He realized that he would probably never know. He watched his mother, knowing that everything about his previous life was at an end now. “We should leave,” he said. “Go west. Maybe to Denver. There’s no reason to stay here anymore.”

  Sara cocked her head toward him. “You really think so?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Mom. There’s nothing left here for us now.”

  Sara turned and looked west. “We might be protected in the mountains. Protected from exactly what, I don’t know, but it just seems to be safer there. Less people. We could stay with my sister for a while. Let things settle. See what happens.”

  Ammon followed her eyes. “It’s not going to be easy to get there. Not safe to travel. Everything and everyone is going crazy. But I think we’ll be OK.”

  The three were silent a long moment, all of them thinking.

  “I hate the thought of just leaving dad,” Luke said. “I mean what if—I know he’s not, but what if—it just seems like we should do something, find something—have some kind of ceremony to say good-bye.”

  No one answered. They all felt the same.