The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

  After several miles of walking Ernest had developed a thirst, so he grabbed a cateen filled with water from the family M.U.D. The true nature of this Pilgrimage almost immediately made itself available to Ernest, a forced march, and it was going on in hundreds of other locations across New Megiddo. Ernest had done ‘Database’ once or twice in his lifetime and he had “experienced” media reels and articles from the mid-Twentieth century—totalitarian Regimes committing atrocities against targeted populations. He couldn’t help but draw parallels to what was happening here.

  “Father, how far is Nuevo San Jose, and do we have to walk the entire way?” Teri had asked—she wasn’t wearing the appropriate shoes for a hike.

  “No, Teri, I think that we walk to the Great Lake and then catch a ferry.” Ernest was trying to think of the geography of the region.

  “Oh, good. I think,” Teri responded dryly.

  After the procession had traveled roughly fifteen miles on old route 101, the first victim was claimed by the Pilgrimage. An old man in his seventies suffered a heart attack. The Lover forces kept the procession moving. They assigned two personnel to bury the body by the roadside marked by a crooked cross. Ernest did not miss the tragic irony of the event, the man was killed in an effort to reach the location that his Messiah was to end his mortal life and whisk him away to the afterlife. The absurdity brought a brief smile to his face.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  The tour he was undergoing of all the B.A.G. venues had been affecting him. His gnarled, old joints complained about all the movement and travel he had undergone these last few days. The Arch-Deacon had been on a whirlwind tour up and down the East Coast to inspect the venues. He was on a personal crusade to ensure that no expense had been spared to create a feeling of majesty and awe for the Second Coming. Every little detail must be in place.

  von Manstein had been traveling in a rustic, armored personnel carrier, which had been re-purposed as an official Church vehicle. He had fantasized about the days, a century ago, when Church leaders had luxury cars and private jets. What was this world now? A pale comparison to its past. Rusted and old, pocked-marked by the progress of the last few centuries. He thought it not worthy of his standards, so he would be happy to see it go. von Manstein theorized that the average citizen must live a short and miserable life, so he felt fine to make the decision to shepherd them to the Lord’s arms.

  That is how he justified what he was doing—he was fighting against suffering by ending miserable lives. He surmised that this is the way the Reverend felt as well. Although he had been hurt that the Reverend had favored Cardinal Zhukov by entrusted him with the destruction of the Apostates. So, von Manstein would pour his heart and soul into overseeing the preparations for the B.A.G. Already, there were throngs of Pilgrims camped out for as far as the eye could see, waiting in anticipation, he suspected, for the opening of the Gathering.

  von Manstein made the observation that they had started the Pilgrimage too early this year. The crowds of Faithful would make it to the venues and they would not be open, so the adherents would need to camp out for an extended period of time. von Manstein had foreseen a crisis when he toured the camps and had observed that people only packed provisions for a couple of days, assuming the Regime would take care of their needs once they got to the B.A.G., but a week or more of camping was not provisioned for. von Manstein entered the concern on his list of priorities, somewhere near the bottom.

  “Your holiness, we have reached the B.A.G. venue,” the driver had announced, and then pressed the switch to release the back ramp to the A.P.C., which lowered slowly to the ground allowing the Arch-Deacon to step out, clad in his clergy garb.

  “Where exactly is this?” von Manstein asked with irritation in his voice.

  “Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, your grace. This is St. Vickers Stadium,” the driver gestured to the large, cracked, cement monolith.

  “Oh, yes, Saint Vickers, he was my favorite,” von Manstein reminisced, a tear of joy ran down his face.

  “Sir?” The driver asked.

  “Oh, nothing, silly me. Getting wrapped up in the past,” von Manstein stowed his nostalgia, “Please take me into the venue,” von Manstein instructed. The two walked up to the towering, old stadium. The white noise of a refugee camp was heard in the sprawling parking lot behind them, like an extended pre-war, involuntary ‘tail gate party’. In front of them were Regime and church officials buzzing about making preparations for the massive event. They were wiring temporary lighting, installing extra bathroom facilities, and trying to solve water and food logistics problems.

  The site foreman approached von Manstein. He was a bald man, with a furry mustache and a disproportionate belly.

  “Your holiness, what a treat. Good to see you,” the foreman greeted him.

  “Yes, yes, how goes the preparations here?” von Manstein pushed for a progress report.

  “Well, we should be all ready to go in time for the B.A.G., we’ll be well provisioned for the event. As for the horde of followers outside our doors, let’s just say that I wouldn’t want to be camping there for more than a couple of days,” the foreman confessed.

  “Do you have extra provisions that you can hand out to the crowd?” von Manstein inquired.

  “We only have enough supplies for the workers and then for the event itself. We didn’t know we’d be dealing with a refugee crisis.” The foreman gestured to the tent city in the parking lot.

  “As soon as the crowd begins to run out of provisions, please share some of the crew’s provisions with the crowd—whatever you can spare.” von Manstein was trying to buy some time.

  “Well, I’ll do what I can, but our provisions are fairly Spartan as is,” the foreman explained.

  “Good! Now that this matter is settled, would you please show me the sub-basement preparations?” von Manstein requested.

  “Yes holiness, right this way.” The foreman gestured to a service elevator leading to lower levels. The trio entered the lift and pulled the safety door shut and made the descent. Several levels later they exited the lift. A dingy corridor was lined with generators and cables running through the space, the corridor led to a central hub—a large chamber directly underneath the playing field of the stadium. In the center of the space where all the cables and wires converged, was a large metallic container, various warning labels were plastered on its sides.

  “Do you think this will do the trick? It’s synchronized to the [Virtue-net] right?” von Manstein asked.

  “Yes sir, this is sufficient. Timed with the official Second Coming—whenever the Reverend says it’s time,” the foreman confirmed, with arms folded, “Let’s just hope the crowd outside survives long enough to see it happen,” the foreman said with concern.

  “Duly noted. Please bring me up to the field level,” von Manstein requested with irritation in his voice.

  The trio took the lift back up to ground level. They proceeded to the playing field through a service entrance. On the field itself was a massive stage, with a backdrop of “heavenly” props, a huge flex screen loomed overhead, and a vintage pulpit, that would have been at home in a Twentieth century a church. von Manstein slowly ascended the stairs to the pulpit on stage. Behind the pulpit was three-dimensional projection apparatus. von Manstein assumed that this is where the avatar of the Reverend would appear.

  “Great, everything looks to be coming along well, foreman. Most pleasing to the Church,” von Manstein said approvingly. The Arch-Deacon and his driver exited the stadium. Off in the distance, von Manstein could see that a scuffle had broken out in the crowd by a group of tents. The scuffle had escalated to a brawl and security officials had rushed over to break it up. von Manstein watched for a moment, then entered his armored vehicle.

  “Poor, lost souls. We will be doing them a favor by delivering them unto the Lord,” he thought, as he sat on one of the stiff seats in the vehicle and strapped himself in.

  “Another city down,” he congratulated himsel
f for making the inspection. The armored vehicle started out, and the rough pavement shook the vehicle as it moved. von Manstein analyzed the route displayed on his retinal H.U.D.—he traced where he was, and where he had been. Next on the itinerary was Baltimore, Maryland. A Regime advisory warning flashed next to the map, about the activities of a black market cartel named the “Barksdale Syndicate”. Officially the Church and Regime condemned the black market cartels, but under the table the Church had massive dealings with these cartels to procure goods and services that the Church leadership desired, so von Manstein chuckled and dismissed the warning.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Gertrude Greenbaum had been scouring the camp for an hour looking to make a barter. She was trying to make a meal for her family, but she had failed to think about packing the spice rack at home. Gertrude was on the hunt for pepper, paprika, turmeric and other spices. The Greenbaums had been a fairly traditional family—Gertrude had been taking care of domestic duties at home, so it fell to her by default to continue those duties on the road. She had Regime currency; plenty of it. But, she was worried that it would be worthless as the world was going to end soon.

  Gertrude walked down between two rows of tents that had just been erected. The Pilgrimage had been halted because the ferry needed to take them across the Great Lake had broken down and was being serviced, so they would have to camp here until the ferry was fixed. A tent to her right harbored a woman who was screaming and moaning in pain. She caught a glimpse of a woman laying on a cot. It appeared that her water had broken and she was heading into labor. The woman was being tended to by a midwife and what appeared to be the father. Gertrude had moved on as she had no intention of intervening in such a drama. She had walked by another block of tents and in one tent where the entrance flap was peeled back, she gazed upon a middle-aged woman cooking over a portable range. The woman had a pot containing some kind of stew boiling on it. Gertrude could smell the spice in the air. Perhaps she had some to spare?

  “Excuse me, excuse me, ma’am. May I offer you a trade?” Gertrude peered her head in the tent.

  “Well hello, c’mon in ‘hun!” the woman had said, “I’ve got a mean goulash cooking if you’re looking for food,” the woman stated invitingly, while stirring the pot with a wooden spoon.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly. I have a dinner I must cook myself. I was wondering if I could pay you for some spices? I noticed that you may have a decent amount,” Gertrude probed.

  “Why yes, I do. I have quite a bit,” she gestured to a box of cooking supplies, which included turmeric, paprika, pepper, rosemary, and a vast assortment of staples.

  “Great, I can pay you for whatever you can spare!” Gertrude offered, bringing her purse forward.

  “Nonsense, you’re money is no good here. Besides, we’re all children of God on our way to a better place!” The woman had declined the money and moved to the spice box, “What were you after, now?” the woman inquired, digging through the bottles.

  “Oh, I’m looking for small amounts of pepper, paprika and turmeric—like you—just trying to make a stew that will feed a family for awhile,” Gertrude explained.

  “How nice, a family. Let me just get you a couple baggies,” the woman said forlornly.

  Gertrude wondered why her tone had changed. Then something struck her: the woman’s face looked familiar. Gertrude remembered the woman from the roadside. The man who had the heart attack must have been related to her as she was there with him.

  “Pardon me, what is your name if you don’t mind me asking?” Gertrude asked the woman.

  “Oh, I’m Vanessa, ‘hun,” she answered back.

  “Vanessa, thanks so much for the spices. This helps me greatly. Say, how many in your family?” Gertrude asked wearily.

  “Just me now. I had my dad with me, but the trip did him in. He’s certainly in a better place now, though,” Vanessa confessed, staring into the pot of goulash for one.

  “I’m sorry for your loss! You must be crushed that he couldn’t reach the B.A.G. to witness the Second Coming?” Gertrude was trying to engage Vanessa on what she figured were her entrenched beliefs.

  “Are you kidding? I’m relieved that he is gone. I believe he really is with God now...on his own terms. All that matters is that the individual believes that their loved ones are in a better place, right? And, I believe I will see him again, but not because the Church is going to send me there,” Vanessa explained with a tested smile, she went back to spicing and stirring the goulash.

  Gertrude was surprised by her answer. She found that Vanessa was passively resisting in her own way. After all the years of conditioning and control, she still managed to hold onto defiance.

  “At any rate. I hope the spices work. Enjoy your dinner. I’ll be going back to cooking now.” Vanessa dismissed her, wanting to be alone. Gertrude took the hint and left her in peace, carrying a couple bags of spices for her cooking. Gertrude headed back to her side of the camp, thinking about what Vanessa had told her. Maybe all these people aren’t as indoctrinated as deeply as she had thought previously? She figured that a government can only push people so far until they break. After all her own mother had told Gertrude when she was a child about her great grandfather’s struggle against an authoritarian Regime long ago, during a great war. She barely remembered those stories, but one word still stuck her mind: ‘partisan’.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  BATTLE OF THE MOTHBALL

  Head Ranger Frank would make a name for himself after this victory. Surely he would receive special honors at the B.A.G, in the presence of the Lord? At the least it would not look good for Inquisitor Rodrigo to have been sitting in the capital while the resistance was destroyed. The Inquisitor wanted Head Ranger Frank to notify him the moment he had confirmed the location of the Apostates operating base. Which he had done, but only just a few moments ago. Head Ranger Frank began the assault, and by the time Rodrigo made it out West the Apostates would be finished. Rodrigo was trying to rob Head Ranger Frank of glory anyhow, so he thought he would take it himself.

  Head Ranger Frank stood atop an armored vehicle with field glasses pointed down toward the Mothball Fleet. He was assessing the situation. Frank noticed a lot of stirring within the fleet, but a well-defended wall and gate protecting the pier.

  “Battle Group Right commence the attack. Draw their attention.” Frank ordered the advance. Frank had a personal guard of five Rangers and a platoon of army regulars. The bulk of his force he was sending against the left flank of the fleet. Frank was holding them back until the right flank engaged. It would be a staggered attack to keep the Apostates off balance.

  It was late afternoon and Frank was hoping that they could complete the assault before nightfall. The last thing he wanted was a protracted night battle. Frank was forced to strike out this late in the day because he had only received Lore-Fiction’s transmission just before noon. The message was short and to the point, it had just given the Apostate’s position and stated that they were leaving soon. Frank was worried that the mole had been found out because he had not heard anything more from him. He thought that Lore-Fiction would have proved useful in the upcoming confrontation, but alas, he’d win without him.

  Head Ranger Frank could view the first wave on the right moving down the ridge in the direction of the fleet and sentries that had not spotted them yet. The Lovers and army regulars formed up in picket lines and awaited the order to fire. Head Ranger Frank was overjoyed. This was his time to shine—the opportunity he had been denied thus far in his career. Frank fantasized about the victory procession he would get from the Schrubbs, and even a place of honor at the B.A.G. this year. A front row seat to the Rapture—actually get to meet Jesus personally, besids the great Reverend Wilhem: the last prophet of God.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Hades-Perdition had been monitoring L.O.V.E. chatter on the [Virtue-net] and knew an attack was coming on the right flank. The Apostates had armed personnel stationed there on shore
behind a fortified wall, and on the ships nearest to that flank. No one covered the center save for the sentries at the front gate. Hades figured he could scale the superstructure of the battleship in the central position and it would be the perfect sniper perch, giving him a commanding view of all flanks. This is where he could make the most impact.

  All ships in the fleet had their engines warming up and personnel were in the process of unmooring the ships, but it wouldn’t be quick enough. There would be no way to avoid this fight. Hades climbed to the top of the superstructure near the old RADAR array and took a prone position. He readied his M82, fifty-caliber, anti-material rifle. Hades wondered if Inquisitor Rodrigo was here, maybe he would catch a glimpse of him in his sights, and with the pull of the trigger, settle an old score.

  Hades checked in with all Apostates, “I’m in position all. Is everyone ready?”

  “Check. I’ve taken up position on the left flank, on the battleship, North Carolina. I’ve got a detachment of personnel here. We will hold off what we can,” Aqua-Deluge reported.

  “I’m performing checks on equipment in the bridge of our flagship. I will do as match as I can until the attack begins,” Ravine-Gulch reported.

  “I’m acting as medic for the right flank defense. I’ll do what I can in a combat role as well, but I’ll probably have my hands full with the wounded,” Blaze-Scorch confessed.

  “I’m on the right flank as well. I can support the center if need be,” Gale-Whirlwind stated.

  They all were in place and anticipating the attack. Ravine-Gulch finished some engine checks and then left the bridge. He moved to the bow of the ship where tarps had been hung to preserve a fresh paint job. He released the twine holding the tarp and it fell into the water, revealing the vessel name; BB-61 U.S.S. Iowa. Ravine thought it appropriate to retain the original name of their designated flagship. The Iowa was being recommissioned under fire, against the country, which had launched it. Ravine appreciated the irony of the situation.