5 Years After (Book 2.5): Smoke & Mirrors

by Correll, Richard

  “Detroit, Michigan.”

  “PLEASE HANG UP AND TRY YOUR CALL AGAIN. THIS IS A RECORDING.” There was a pause after the scratchy ancient message, then the loud air raid siren warning wale: BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. The shrill cry Molly had not heard since child hood marked the passing of the motor city. The old school sound of a phone off the hook or out of place, it was a strange choice.

  “When it had all started I watched a monitor on CBS with a feed from across the river from Detroit. Fire was blazing in the downtown core,“ Molly recollected to camera one, she could recall the flames towering skyward like a giant animal “Sparks and cinders rained down on older, wooden structures and Detroit City was dwarfed and illuminated in an orange light.“

  She let the visual picture settle in with the viewer, “The reflection off the water created a terrible tapestry.”

  Molly paused. She did not add that even on the other side of the river the camera could zoom in and see the misshapen figures silhouetted in flames, they were probably still there sifting among the ruins. Sometimes it was best to keep the elephant in the room invisible.

  “New York City,” Molly tapped the keypad a few times and then held the phone to her ear. It was strange to place New York in her minds’ eye. The lights, constant traffic, center of culture for the east coast, all dark and un-illuminated through the ages of things slowly winding down. The familiar rings began to play their tune.

 

  There was a long pause as Molly zeroed in on the other end of the phone. What was that? Did someone just pick up? She had to try and think of possibilities. One of them had probably knocked the phone over and hit the answer button. Molly sat stone straight in her chair. Her eyes seemed lost in the moment, trying to imagine the world on the other end. A pitch black room in a pitch black world. But there was breathing, Molly felt herself get cold. Somebody is breathing in to the phone. Was it one of them?

  “Hello?” Molly spoke slowly, feeling her eyes grow wider. There was definitely breathing. Do they breath?

  “Baker, Charlesworth and Nestleton.” A voice spoke up, it was professional and calm. Molly thought it might be her imagination but there was a hint of the sardonic mixed in as well.

  “H….Hello?” Molly felt herself go cold at the words. You’re calling a dead city, a dead fucking city and someone has answered. “Who is this?”

  “Baker………….Charlesworth……..and………..Nestleton.” There was a pause after the words had been slowly dragged out like a tape playing at a reduced speed, then, the laughter started, it was low and malevolent, the punch line to a cruel joke. The phone went dead……..

  Boom……..

  Molly kept her face emotionless, this wasn’t acting anymore. This was like a tip of an iceberg that led the world in a whole new direction. You called New York, abandoned. Empty for five years and someone just answered. People are living there, how the fuck is that possible?

  “Tell me you got that.” Molly whispered after a minute or two as she brought her hand up to her mouth. This time make up was too far into shock to react. Molly looked up and Ted nodded slowly.

  “We got it, Miss. Hunter.”

  Boom……..

  ALICE AND THE LOOKING GLASS

  It was strange how her memories played over time. Rebecca bit at her fingertip without a second thought. The entire nail came off and hung between her teeth before she spat it out on the blackened carpet. That was happening more and more these days, her sluggishness in the morning and late afternoons also was a bit of a mystery.

  Back to the memories……

  Daddy at the slaughterhouse, it had been bring your child to work day or something like that. None of the other workers had done it but daddy did. Rebecca’s memories on the subject had bended over time like light through patterned glass. The edge of the saw cutting parts of the animal had a certain mathematical beauty to it now. It was something that had kept her well fed and alive in the cavernous darkness of New York. Lost in the refraction of time was her vomiting non-stop when she saw it for the first time. The geysers of blood and the fetid smell of internal gases and raw meat hanging in plain view in the barn like structure. Her father had been doing it for years. It was natural to him, something to share with his only child. There was almost a pride in what he did.

  Memory zeroed in on what to cut and keep and what to toss away. Cooking the meat had been a slow procedure, overcooking over a fire always seemed to be the best discretion. What was left over was salted, pickled and even mixed with brown sugar. She picked away at the thin strips of hardened, cooked human flesh that had once been a guy named Dylan and chewed slowly. It had the texture of thick, cooked pork or dark meat chicken. It was food, food was sustenance and power. For a second, a thrill of invincibility coursed through her veins.

  She was on the thirty eighth floor of the tower over looking Times Square. Rebecca stood up and spat on the window and rubbed her hand on the dust encrusted glass. It was amazing how dirty things got when no one cleaned up after a while. The window began to clear and the dark, rectangular shapes of buildings were exposed to the moonlight. They were dull, unreflective hulks, tombstones of a time quickly being forgotten. This was her place now, queen of the dark and dead.

  By hurricane lamp she had kept up her reading. The Lord of the Rings was a favorite she chose again and again, especially the parts with Arwen. They had a lot in common now. They were woman of power and substance; Queens. It was awesome to have time to read all of the Star Wars and Star Trek series, Ursula K. Le Guin and even the dark, comfortingly black mind of Edgar Allan Poe.

  One night, she pondered weak and weary the life of the raven. She watched the ripples on the water of the Hudson from the rooftop that was once the Library Bar in Hell’s Kitchen and decided the raven should have her story told.

  I am a bird of ebony beguiling

  Your fate, as I sit smiling

  By the grave and sternest decorum of all days yore,

  I am the grim and ancient raven who wanders these nightly shores,

  Then tell me, he pleaded tell me thye name, why do you haunt this plutonian shore?

  Your guilt ridden nightmares of darkness and fright,

  Sweet Lenore is gone New York, and I am your sentinel through endless sleepless nights,

  No words will soothe me, no covenant spell or prayer shall remove me,

  I am your raven, forever more.

  “Forever more,” Rebecca whispered through a thin smile that invaded her face at the twisting of the faithful phrase. The buildings heard her commands, “forever more.”

  *

  The Deacon watched the farmlands pass by underneath as the C-130J maintained its course. He had the time to ponder the fields that stretched on endlessly. At one time, the edges were clear cut from this altitude, like patches on a magnificent earthen quilt. Now, the squares were slowly losing their mathematical periphery after years of neglect. Trees and brush rarely ever followed such perpendicular paths. It grew anywhere it wished without the interest of geographical boundaries. The nature of things was once again recovering her real estate from a tenant who had abandoned his property after a relatively short period of dominance.

  It had all moved at dizzying speed, especially for the church. After all, we count time in millennium while the world ponders events on a minute by minute basis. Pillaging of the dead was now a sin. Those who would enter into red zones for profit or politics and return with relics of those no longer alive were excommunicate; grave robbers.

  “Father Deacon,” A professional voice in cleric clothes interrupted his gardening one day. “May we have a minute of your time?”

  He was a bit of a conundrum, he was told. A good man of faith with a higher profile than most thanks to the reporting of one Molly Hunter, he had served the church so well through these most difficult of times.

  “I do my best to serve the lord.” He replied politely over tea.

  “Indeed,” the smooth as leather reply came. “As we
all do.”

  “There are these disturbing stories that you have been partaking in……….. “ The voice paused to grasp the word, he turned to his companion.

  “The locals call it gofering….” The man who was clearly an assistant offered. He seemed amused at the colloquialism. He had gentle features and that serene face so many had practiced at the highest levels of the church. No matter the kindness, the eyes remained cold as ice.

  “Really?” The Deacon uttered the single word with equal politeness and added an arched eyebrow to feign surprise.

  “Is there is any evidence you can offer in contrary for your defense?” The first voice had returned to his ever polite position of authority.

  “I serve God,” The Deacon fixed them with a steady gaze while his tone remained calm. “And I serve those under my care.”

  “Indeed, as we all do……”

  He would be re assigned while the church pondered his fate. The whole thing struck him as almost cavalier. Only God could judge his soul, the ones who were playing with the paperwork were just dallying with his earthly existence, nothing more. The Deacon felt serene in his state of mind, what if you were ex-communicated?

  Really, what would it change? There were a few more buildings in sight now. Their destination was an air force base on the east coast. It would not stop him from serving the lord and doing his work. One could be a disciple without being a man of the cloth. John the Baptist had done very well without any real official backing. All it took to serve God were good intentions and a strong work ethic. Everything else just complicated the matter.

  The turbo prop taxied to a spot on the air field. The plane turned slowly to align itself with a vehicle that was heading their way that looked like a stair case on wheels. While passengers rose to retrieve overhead bags there was an audible noise of contact to the front of the aircraft. The passengers busied themselves with the collection of things that were too precious to trust to baggage handlers. There was a hiss that betrayed the escaping of air.

  My, The Deacon mused while still seated. That was fast. The people at this airport are certainly…..

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are Air Marshals.” A man with wide shoulders, a square haircut and dark glasses held up a wallet containing a badge. “We ask you to please return to your seats for a moment.”

  There was a pause, a collective moment of hesitation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats.” The second order broke the trance. Passengers clutched their belongings and sat down without taking another breath. For a second there was an air of expectation all around him.

  “Sir,” The Air Marshal was standing in front of him now. His second had taken up a position toward the back of the plane. “Could you please come with us?”

  “Of course,” The Deacon gave the Marshal a thin smile in reply. “May I take my carry on with me?”

  “Of course, sir,“ The Marshal nodded to his second. “The deputy will get your bag.”

  “Thank you,” The Deacon rose to follow them out. He could feel all eyes on him as he walked down the aisle. I bet they think I’m some kind of bad ass. He tried not to make eye contact with anyone on his way out.

  “So, you’re a gofer?” The Deacon guessed it was an army uniform the man behind the metal desk was wearing, but had to admit he was somewhat lax in his knowledge of such things. The room was professional and off white, the color you painted a place when you weren’t going to paint it for a long time.

  “Would you really want me to answer and incriminate myself?” The Deacon replied as he crossed his legs and settled in to a chair that was a twin of the desk and man he was facing, cold, impersonal and official.

  The look on the officer’s face betrayed impatience. The Deacon quickly added, “Perhaps you could tell me what this is all about?”

  “We need a gofer.” The man’s face seemed to drain of emotion.

  “Why would you need such a person?” The Deacon liked his reply, it was neutral; an admission of nothing.

  “The God Damn media is stirring up a shit storm again.” The man seemed to lean closer, studying his face. “This time they say people are still living in the cities.”

  That would be the venerable Molly Hunter. The Deacon observed privately while pretending to follow the conversation, the Sixty Minutes piece had been very entertaining. He had become aware that her dramatic timing had been a powerful instrument in her reporting style. What to say, how to say it. How to make it all seem so …….engaging, the audience became drawn in. No longer observers but part of the events, dramatis personae.

  “So I’m gonna ask you again, father.” The big, meaty hands came together on his desk, the eyes zeroed in on his face. “Are you a gofer?”

  The Deacon gave a thin smile and eye contact as his answer. His face stayed serene while he watched the man behind the desk nod to an assistant at the door. The Deacon’s luggage was open and in the room in a flash. The man behind the desk was starting to smile as he rose from his chair.

  “Let’s see what we have here.” His tone was almost musical. His hand disappeared into the bag and then returned quickly. He held up the modified nail gun. He gave the Deacon a knowing glance and then returned his attention to the bag. Thick, reinforced coat, climbing gear, rope and other assorted items created a large shadow of guilt. When the pieces had been laid out on the desk, the man turned to the Deacon and folded his arms across his chest, checkmate.

  “So,” the Deacon nodded blandly to the man and his winning hand. “What is it you need me to do?”

  The darkness wrapped itself around her like a warm, comfortable blanket. She used the solar powered flashlight carefully. Until you were safe for the night there was no reason to call attention to yourself, the office door slipped open and she carefully navigated through the maze of cubicle after cubicle. It was strange to pass by a small square of what was once someone’s life. There were pictures, darkened by years of dust and dirt. The chairs seemed to be patiently waiting to be used again. Blackened screens, coffee cups, keyboards, the refuse left behind when the world came to an end.

  The best way to navigate this hedgerow was a ponderously careful few feet at a time. Find a cubicle. It was a safe place for now. There were no locked doors but at least there was just one entrance. The element of surprise in an attack from behind had been removed, the safety meter nudged upwards slightly. The next step was to locate another cubicle, closer to your destination. Rebecca took an errant coffee cup and tossed it in the anticipated direction of her travels. It bounced off the carpeting twice, dust clouds bloomed out and swirled for a few seconds before setting back down. Rebecca listened for a few seconds before making her move just eight more feet up the endless network of a now corporate wasteland.

  She slipped into the cubicle and a cloud of flies blinded her for a second. Yes, three maybe four seconds. It was a strange narrative inside her head. You were just taken off guard for three or four seconds. That’s all it takes to die.

  He had been dead for quite some time, maybe since it all started. He was gone from this world, merely a shell without a soul now. The cloud of flies she disturbed returned to their feeding as quickly as possible, the meal was too good to miss. He was slumped over his desk, his head resting on the keyboard. The back of his skull looked black and misshapen in the dark. He could have once been handsome, now the skin was slowly being eaten away over time by fat, white maggots.

  A gun……….

  It winked at her in the dark. The cold metal had somehow found a ray of light somewhere to announce its presence. The flashlight clicked on for a second and then she reached for the gun as it lay on the carpet. Carefully, she checked the safety, it was off. A gun to Rebecca was a gun, she didn’t care what make it was, caliber or anything. It was a gun. That was good enough for her, with the safety firmly in place she slipped it into her hoodie pouch for the time being. She carefully listened like a deer on predator’s ground for any tell-tale noises. The silence was a c
old comfort. It could change at any time.

  After a minute she slipped into the cubicle a bit more and found a large plastic shopping bag. It was sturdy and classy with a huge H & M logo. Rebecca pulled a corner toward her and peered over the edge. The first thing she found was two boxes of ammunition that Rebecca assumed were for the gun she had acquired. They quickly disappeared into her back pack. The rest of the bag was filled up halfway to the top with cash, hundreds, fifties, twenties. It had all been stuffed hap-hazard into any space the H & M bag would allow. Rebecca didn’t care to count it, it was useless now. It was even too small to be used as toilet paper.

  The big oak door of the CEO office loomed before her in the dark. It was like that big, metal obelisk from that space movie she had seen years ago. She tried the door, it was locked. Good, it was a sure sign nothing dangerous was on the other side. She turned slowly in the dark and felt her way over to the secretary’s desk. It was a piece of cake to find the key. All of us secretaries hid it in the same place. The center drawer, this one was in an envelope. She grasped the key and soundlessly inserted it. The response was a loud “click” that startled her for a moment.

  Pause…..wait……..listen………nothing.

  The door opened and revealed a huge, battleship sized desk. Well, somebody had a small penis, she almost giggled. The scene behind the desk displayed dark on dark. A massive floor to ceiling window with a view of New York, darkened shapes that seemed to remind her for a moment of pictures she had seen of Easter Island, megalithic stone blocks for mile after mile. The Milky Way was rising in the blackened sky.

  Rebecca closed the door carefully and snapped the lock back into place. There was no fear now, she lit up the flashlight and perused the place for adjoining rooms. There was a bathroom, a fridge with a few bottles of water still in place and a half bottle of something that was dark colored. Awesome, she thought, as she gathered in the booty.