Revealing Revelations

by Ric Nero

  He now knows inside that he can only turn one direction and that is the church. He sits back and exhales heavily in hesitation. He looks up and notices how beautiful the sun is. The sun must have been up at least an hour now, but to him, it’s as if daybreak just occurred before his eyes. He marveled as though out of darkness a light appeared and gave him hope inside.

  “Weeping may endure… But joy… But joy…” He continues to ramble but with relief and inspiration. He stands to his feet, hands raised high towards the sky with head tilted back he yells out, “BUT JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING LIGHT!” Faith restored and clear, he rushes to the church. He knows what he brings to the light will destroy all darkness of what happened so that it can never happen again.

  He leaves the pond area heading to the church. He walks, heart held high and in good hopes. He will explain his case to Cardinal Blithe who will present it to the Pope and actions will be taken accordingly in the name of the church.

  Making haste to the church, he constantly looks up at the sky. The light has never been this beautiful to him as it is today. Through the streets he goes, with the wind breezing though his early stage thinning grayish white hair. He walks up the cement stairs to the broad large double doors of the church. He pushes one door open. Underestimating its weight, he only manages to open it halfway and walks though. He makes a left and walks along the back of a pew then makes a right turn to walk past the row of pews to get to the confession booths with the same sense and speed of urgency he had when he left the pond.

  A woman approaches him with dried up tears at the crevice of her eyes. “Good morning, Father,” she speaks, in wishes to speak to him.

  But he walked past, completely unaware of her presence at all, he’s only focused on Cardinal Blithe. He walks to the confession booths. He sees a door open from the brown wood-finished confession booth and a slightly taller, slightly older and broader man steps out. It’s Cardinal Blithe.

  “Father Blithe!” he shouts out with hand extended greeting him with a handshake.

  Father Blithe shakes his hand. “Ah, Father Auron. We have been expecting you,” he replies with a smile.

  “Father Blither, I apologize for my distance from the church. I was actually focusing my time in unraveling the truth in secrets of evil amongst the brotherhood.”

  “Father Auron, I assure you, I understand. That’s why we have been looking for you,” Cardinal Blithe answers.

  “I understand, Father, but…” He pauses in caution and begins to search the sanctuary looking from left to right scanning to make sure ears don’t pick up on the conversation. “There are acts of sacrilege inside of our own house.”

  “Father Auron,” he says while he places his hands on Father Auron’s shoulders.

  Father Auron looks up at the tall figure.

  A long pale wrinkled face with dark brown beady eyes absorbs him. Grayish eyebrows are raised, causing more wrinkles in excessive skin. “I understand your petition, but I assure you it’s not sacrilege.”

  Father Auron looks at Father Blithe. The lids cover those beady dark eyes, and as they open, yellow tint eyes of a cat – with black cylinder-like pupils – peer back at him.

  “Now, as I stated previously, WE, my dear friend,” a pause takes place as long lips smirk on his face, “have been waiting for you.”

  I stand outside under a dark sky before a set of large gray metal double doors. These locked doors before me stand to deprive me, and the thirty other weary souls behind me the shelter and safe haven we all seek in this abandoned high school. I begin digging in my heavily dinged brown satchel at my side while I look back and see the wearied dirt-smudged faces of the others, who haven’t had the luxury of bathing for months now. They look so saddened almost as if their hope in life was virtually evaporating from them with each moment that passes. I notice their attire – rags and old coats and tennis shoes. We all look like homeless people in today’s time. None of us have eaten or drank any fluids in a day’s time. Food, water and shelter have become scarce, almost impossible to find over the years.

  Ruffling my hand through miscellaneous objects in my bag, I finally pull out a lock pick. Kneeling down and placing my attention back on the door in front of me, I hear a click as the door on my left slightly pops open. I stand to my feet signaling a few men in the crowd to ready their weapons in case there are other drifters that may pose a threat. Four men ahead of the crowd aim M-4 assault rifles at the double doors anticipating danger. The weapons are actually out of ammo from previous hunts for food, but having a barrel aimed at a person does more intimidation than a few people with balled up fists.

  Readying an old fashioned kerosene lantern, I take a deep breath before swinging the door open and they rush in with me leading the way shinning the light. We burst into a large powerless wooden floored open room with bleachers and basketball rims at opposing ends of the room, it’s the gymnasium. I shine the light around the gymnasium seeing green and gold banners saying, “Manitou Springs High Home of the Mustangs.” And I think to myself, great more horses. I guess it was the pride of this small town in Colorado.

  “Thomas, it’s clear!” yells out one of the brave men that check the safety of the gymnasium for the day’s shelter.

  I quickly put my finger over my lips warning him that it isn’t safe to speak so loudly yet.

  “Sorry,” he says with widened eyes after the reminder.

  “It’s okay. But glory be to God, then for this place. Here take this,” I said to him handing over the kerosene lantern. “Can you check the nearby rooms just in case, and the kitchen for any food, please?”

  “I’ll get right on it, Thomas,” he says, grabbing the lantern with one hand while holding the assault rifle in the other. “Come on,” he tells the other man carrying an M-4 as they run off.

  I head back to the opened door waving my hand to signal the others to come inside the electrically absent building. Electricity was another luxury we were made to do without for over three years now. The year is now 2017, and despite the expectations advancing technology as time goes on, what little civilization that remains in today’s world have only back tracked instead. It feels as if things get any worse, we’ll be cavemen swinging clubs at everything we don’t understand due to lack of knowledge and short attention spans.

  I walk over and open the other large metal door to allow twice the access into the school so that everyone can get in quickly. I look at each face that passes me by; men, children and women – some even pregnant – enter a place so unfamiliar to them, yet they welcome the safety and rest that we all hope it may bring with it. A place we may willingly call home even if just for the day. Even without the luxuries of power or food and water, it’s still a lot better than the deadly outdoors we’ve been surviving. But we have been surviving nonetheless, through the grace of God, of course.

  After the last person walks by, I step outside and scan the area for any followers that may have been pursuing us. Seeing no one, I quickly close the door behind us. “Alright, listen, everyone,” I say, trying to maintain low tones in the gymnasium as my voices carries.

  They all turn their eyes towards me.

  “We, as of now, have a place of shelter at least for the night. You know what needs to be done first. All the windows need to be covered with boards, blankets or whatever necessary to keep light from being seen through those windows,” I tell them, pointing at the broad windows that take the higher half of an entire wall above the bleachers to my left.

  “Thomas, what about those school banners?” a voice asks from amongst the fatigued crowd. “I mean, they look thick enough and it’ll be better than using our blankets. We got shelter, but it gets cold still around midnight.”

  “Do what you deem best. I’ll need two people to get something to burn in, a barrel or something that can withstand a fire.” I explain to the others. Looking around the gymnasium I see a pair of short tin garbage cans off in the far corner. “There.” I point to the garbage cans. Now we just
needed something to burn, preferably wood, but I didn’t want to risk anyone going back out there. I walk towards the garbage cans and hear the floorboards of the old rugged court squeak and shift a little freely under my feet. I stop in my tracks and think to myself, God is good, as I put a few ideas together.

  Shortly after, plans come together, windows are covered with banners and a few feet away from the bleaches, burn two garbage cans filled with wood, papers and other miscellaneous things that would aid the fire. The two riflemen were able to find snacks and drinks in the vending machines and hand sanitizer in the kitchen. Junk and candy bars that parents would warn their children of years ago were now treats and delicacies to us all. We were on top of the world now, having food, drink and shelter; there was nothing that could bring us down at this moment in time. I even overheard a child ask his father what’s the meaning of the numbers on the wrappers.

  The father then looked at his son, he told him to eat his food and be thankful. Hearing that, I even looked at the empty Snicker’s wrapper I held in my hand, it read EXP Mar 2016. Paying it no mind, I lean back against the double metal doors and sit comfortably as I wait for Auron and the others who should be here any moment with more newly saved believers. As followers of God, that’s how we found a way to serve Him. By finding stragglers and offering our help through unity and the knowledge of salvation that Jesus gives to all of us.

  “Thomas,” Rosie calls out as she walks to me from the bleachers with an extra bottle of water. She was one of the first that I found and helped introduce to Christ. She walks over slender in size with red hair making her Irish ethnicity obvious. Her long trench coat covered her worn red sweater and black jeans that stopped at the top of her steel toed boots that kept her feet somewhat warm. She sits down beside me against the wall handing me the water bottle with the word Aquafina well faded. “This is great, isn’t it?” she asks me, sharing the same lifeless facial expression as everyone else in here.

  “Yeah, it’s been a while since we had it this good,” I tell her while reaching in my satchel just to pull out a wooden egg timer. The sand was just about full on the bottom half suggesting that almost an hour had passed. It was a job we rotated amongst each other after the passing of every hour just to roughly keep up with the time. Even at night whoever was on night guard would still keep track of the time and report it to me in the morning when he or she would wake me around five. At first, it was a tedious job to keep up with, but now time reminds us that we’re still somewhat alive.

  “What time is it?” Rosie asks me as she pulls another bottle from her coat pocket.

  “Just about thirteen hundred hours,” I reply, writing the time down in my little brown journal. I crack the door open and peek outside for Auron and the others. I see nothing but dark night skies outside covering the Earth. “I still remember when the sky was poisoned,” I say to Rosie.

  “Me too, but it’s getting hard to remember what it was like before it became blackened,” she says to me. “The blue sky and white clouds and other pastel colors painted high above us.” Rosie continues on trying to reminisce.

  “If I were you I’d rather not think of the past, it makes today much harder to bear,” I advise her.

  “Come on. You mean you don’t think of what life was like before all this?” Rosie asks me, looking straight in my eyes for any implication that I may give her a false answer. “I mean, why else would you keep that journal?”

  She had me there and she knew it. But after waiting longer than she had expected for an answer, she realized I had no intentions of answering her, so she got up and walked back to the bleachers with the others. For so long I had to be strong for the group that I denied all signs of weaknesses that would hinder the others. Even if it was just for a mere moment to daydream about what once was. But I couldn’t deny it anymore as I looked at my worn black leather covered journal. I’ve had it for years, it held my secrets, thoughts, history and even some emotions I’ve become unfamiliar with over these past years. Things like peace and joy have become foreigners to my heart. But the more I look at this closed journal, I find myself growing curious to remember what I had written on these pages so long ago. And seeing as how this entire day was truly a blessing from God, I chose to take advantage of this time and share my history with the others. Hopefully, my past would provide a good story for them and ease their minds, allowing them a moment to remember their own past lives and have just a little more in their minds to live for.

  I bend my knees and use my hands to push me up as I stand to my feet. I begin to make my way to the bleachers as I watch the others eat drink and enjoy every second here.

  “It looks like we’re truly blessed today,” I say to the crowd of hungry people. I take a few steps up the bleachers maneuvering my way to the center of the crowd. “I’m glad to see everyone calm and soaking in this second of bliss,” I tell them as I sit down and open my book of history.

  “Are you going to read us a bedtime story?” asks a young unknown voice. I turn to my left to see who it was, only to see it was the same curious young boy who asked his father about the expiration date on the wrapper.

  “Yeah, I had something like that in mind,” I told the young boy.

  “Can you do ‘The Three Little Pigs’?” he asked me.

  I smiled with a chuckle at his request. “No, I think I’ll share a story a little more realistic,” I tell him. I pause for an instance realizing I had just done something that over the years I forgot I was capable of… laughter.

  “I guess you do care to share, huh, Thomas?” says a slightly charismatic Rosie that sits behind me.

  “I guess I do,” I tell her as I turn my head to see her. “What about the rest of you, do you care to listen?” I ask them. I receive multiple verbal affirmations and observe people nod their heads in an up and down motion as they use their mouths to continue to chew. I flipped from the last page of my journal to the very beginning and began to read. “Ahem! January 13, 2008.”

  Fort Hood

  Killeen, Texas

  1/13/08

  A mass of soldiers in P.T. uniforms run down Battalion Blvd. Male and female soldiers of every nationality side by side united in representation of the U.S. Army. All with same purposes in mind: American preservation, moral comradery, and self motivation. Sweat beads down their forehead all the way to gray Army shirts and smooth winds blow past their black P.T. shorts. A roar of cadence calls echo through the streets.

  “When that left foot strikes the ground!” sings out a single voice followed by a unified flock of others.

  “All I want to hear is that “WHAT,” sound!” The platoon once again repeats after the sergeant.

  My eyes from the distance watch them. Not with curiosity, but pride. Pride because of the fearless actions most have endured in combat zones and others who soon will, because of the loyalty amongst them. Not only the loyalty to their country, but more importantly, to each other. But, at the end, I almost feel a small sense of pity for them. So motivated and driven, it was obvious the majority of them are new soldiers who still have the privilege of being unaware of what awaits them overseas. Some will make it back, others won’t. It’s the life we all ignorantly chose.

  “Specialist Thomas!” I hear a voice call out catching my attention. I look out of a small clear plexi-glass window, noticing it vaguely mirrors some of my reflection. Forgetting someone called my name, I get lost in the mirror image of myself, so impressed with my good looks. A light brown African American male dressed in Army ACU’s, mustache, standing about five foot six — handsome, if I do say so myself. Guess I was just being vain at the moment.

  “Specialist Thomas!” the voice calls out to me again.

  I convert all attention back to guard duty. I look towards the direction where I heard my name. Seeing a tan Honda Civic to my left, a hand reaches out of the car window handing me an identification card. The picture on the card shows a Caucasian male. I quickly return the card back to the empty extended hand. Ne
ither name, nor the face is familiar, or of any importance to me for that matter. The only thing important to me was the rank that I saw as I glanced down towards the center of the man’s ACU top. Two black parallel vertical bars.

  “You may proceed, Captain,” I tell him then I took a step halfway back into the guard booth pushing a button which in turn raises a yellow and white stripped horizontal gate pole.

  He shoots me a stare of disapproval, probably because I didn’t respond when he first called my name, but he’ll be okay. The vehicle proceeds at a low speed.

  Visually searching for the platoon running at a double-time I’d seen before are no longer in sight. I return to the booth. Sitting down, I wait for the routine to repeat itself. Car comes up, grab the ID card, push button, then give ID card back. “This is what Uncle Sam wants for the country, a button pusher,” I say to myself followed by a chuckle at the thought.

  “Specialist Thomas!” a voice shouts out.

  I turn around once again looking for the extended hand, but there was none this time. A short slightly pudgy figure stands before me in the opening of the booth. Looking at a pair of squinty eyes above a smile on the face of the tan-like brown individual.

  “What’s up, black ass?” the Hispanic man in ACU’s asked me.

  I sit down and lean back in the cushioned computer chair with hands folded behind my head. “Specialist Bernal, how ‘bout you remember to address me as Specialist Promotable Thomas when you see me, got that, my mexicano muchacho vato?” Both of our racist remarks are nothing more than jokes we use to remind us of our long-time friendship. It was humor that we both shared, even though I was from Chicago and Benal was from Las Vegas. After being in basic training for nine weeks, A.I.T. fifteen weeks, Iraq, and same unit together for three years, we became good friends.

  “Had to throw that ‘promotable’ part in my face, huh, Thomas?” Benal says, maintaining the same smile as before.