by Tom Calen
Wilson Armenio, looking every bit of his seventy-one years of age, had spent much of his life building one of the dominant agriculture empires in America. After inheriting his father’s small farm in the mid-1970s, Armenio had managed, through several smartly targeted acquisitions, to become an industry leader in a shockingly brief period of time. Counted as one of Forbes Magazine’s Top Earning CEOs, and featured on the cover of both Time and Newsweek, Armenio had positioned his company to reap massive benefits during the early twenty-first century’s ethanol boom. By his retirement in 2009, Armenio had a net worth estimated in the billions, and his multi-national company was one of the most secure on the world’s stock exchanges.
He and his wife had been vacationing in the Caribbean when the virus struck. His eyes still flooded when conversation or thought turned to her and the harrowing night when they and several members of their yacht’s crew attempted to escape the ship. Armenio was but one of only five to reach the lifeboats before the infected on the ship ripped his wife from his arms.
Upon reaching safer shores, the farmer turned billionaire dedicated his agricultural knowledge to sustaining the growing population of New Cuba. A lesser man might have expected his former societal position to afford him some measure of prestige and comfort. Wil Armenio, however, seemed to recognize a completeness in his current status. First his father, and later his wife; both deaths had forced him to build something from nothing and even at seventy-one years old, Armenio worked daily to make them both proud.
Ruth Maldonado, though from much humbler beginnings and a former graduate student at the University of Havana, shared Armenio’s zeal in preventing a food crisis. Decisions had been made in the brief hours the three had been gathered since the Councilor’s meeting. Wil’s expertise in generating the most product from arable land combined with Ruth’s studies in health had thus far generated a respectable recommendation which Wil would take to the Councilor.
When she was first elevated to the position of Ruth’s deputy, Michelle had initially felt educationally inferior in comparison to Ruth and the Director. The pair’s encouraging demeanor, however, had coaxed Michelle out of her timidity to the point where she felt an integral member of the team.
“I think this will do,” Wil said after eyeing the handwritten pages of the plan they had developed.
“They made it no easy,” Ruth commented with a thick accent. Her improved English was a result of working so closely with Wil and Michelle, yet her continued struggle with the language was always evident in her phrasing.
“Si, no es facil,” Michelle replied with a grin. Her own mastery of Spanish was a source of pride, though she still struggled when speaking with Tumelo the grocer. His rapidity of speech and use of slang had, more times than not, left her in a haze of mistranslation. Ruth’s slow pacing made it easier for her to learn through conversation.
With his ever ready chortle, Wil agreed, standing to adjourn the meeting, “They want us to prepare for thousands, but have nothing wasted if only a dozen are rescued. It’s a coin toss no matter what happens.”
Michelle spent the remainder of the early evening in Ruth’s office typing the handwritten notes. Years of computer disuse made the process embarrassingly slow as she used her index fingers to hunt for each letter. Growing up her family had struggled daily to stretch what little income was available. That frugality prevented the Lafkin’s from owning a computer, and she had been one of the few teens of the time without a cell phone. When her school work had required word processed term papers, Michelle had been forced to spend long hours in the town’s small library. Whatever skill allowed her burgeoning mastery of Spanish, did not provide a mastery of the keyboard.
With weary eyes, she finished the document and returned to her own office to gather her belongings. That same weariness made her conclude that her evening perusing the library’s treasures would most likely result in another extended nap. Instead, she headed home at an early hour, early as measured by her normal standards. Andrew was pleasantly surprised when she came through the front door, and the two settled down to a light dinner while discussing their respective days.
Erik, he informed her, had once again been absent from work. “I don’t think they’re going to ignore it much longer, even as good as he is with the work.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” she replied between bites of the leftover chicken from the weekend. “When my mom left, Dad had a really tough time, and it wasn’t until he hit rock bottom that things started to get better.”
“Maybe,” he answered, though clearly not fully committed. “I was thinking maybe I could talk to Paul before he leaves, see if he’d reconsider letting Erik join the team.”
Coughing slightly as the food caught in her throat, she took a sip of water before saying, “On a rescue mission? Babe, Paul made the right call. There will be lives at stake, and Erik can’t even sober himself up enough to make it into work. He’s not the same as he used to be.” None of us are, she added silently.
A brief moment passed before Andrew spoke again. When he did, his gaze remained focused on the mostly empty plate in front of him. “Do you ever think of going back?”
Had she been chewing, Michelle knew she would have certainly choked once again. “What?”
“Going back. Not to live, or anything. But, maybe we owe it to others to help search. If we hadn’t found that radio broadcast…” His words trailed off as he nervously fiddled with his fork.
Erik’s desire to return had not shocked her. He had not adapted to their new situation and perhaps he saw returning as a way of reclaiming some normality in his life. The irony of those six years being considered normal was not lost on Michelle. But, Andrew, who had rarely talked of the past and always encouraged her to look forward, so for him to mention a return was something for which she had not been prepared. He had lost so much, mother and childhood, in the battle to survive.
“Do you want to go back?” she asked him slowly, fearing the answer he might give her.
“No… I guess not,” he replied after a thought, much to her relief. “But I can’t help wonder if we hadn’t heard about this place, would we still be up in the mountain… would we still be alive? What if there are others out there waiting for hope like we were?”
There had been times over the last year that she had had the same thoughts. If not for the radio broadcast detailing an escape to Cuba, Michelle doubted their small band would have remained unscathed, such as they were.
“Andrew, the men and women Paul has on his team are trained for this stuff. They’re better armed, better organized. How we managed for so long… a lot of it was luck.”
With a slight nod, he proceeded to switch the topic to the food project she had started telling him of. As she went through the details of the plans she had developed with Wil and Ruth, her thoughts remained troubled. The familiar guilt returned as she realized that perhaps Andrew had not acclimated as well as she thought. She had allowed herself to become consumed with work she enjoyed, spent many nights ensconced in the library, and had seen Andrew as a source of comfort when the other two distractions were unavailable. He, however, was quickly losing the reason for his selected profession, returned most nights to an empty home, engaged to a woman who had inexplicably isolated herself from him.
The little sleep she found that night was fitful and fleeting. Much of the hours before dawn she spent staring at the bedroom ceiling, more uncertain of the future than she had been since arriving in New Cuba.
--
“Why do you look so nervous?” Wil asked her as they sat waiting in the Councilor’s office. “You’ve met him before.”
“After speeches, but not one-on-one like this,” Michelle replied, trying to relax whatever nerves Wil claimed were apparent. He had considered it a reward for her work, bringing her to his meeting with the Councilor, but she had begun fidgeting almost immediately.
Adam Duncan, one of the seven Councilors that governed the island nation, was a man
that exuded confidence and commanded respect. Even in a crowded meeting hall, when he took the stage, Michelle could almost feel the aura of power that surrounded him. And for an older man, she could not deny his attractive features. She guessed him to be in his mid-forties, judging by the slight flashes of gray that flecked the dark brown hair at his temples, though with his creaseless face he could certainly have passed for younger. Broad of shoulder, his tall frame seemed perpetually coiled with energy and purpose.
Councilor Duncan had been among the first groups to escape to Cuba shortly after the outbreak. Stationed in Louisiana, though if he was military or contractor she didn’t know, he had had enough foresight to gather as many of the uninfected unto a ship and head for the then-communist stronghold. Many credited the successful establishment of the new government to his intellectual prowess and leadership. Something of a legend on the island, several citizens had congratulated her on securing a position so close to Councilor Adam Duncan, yet in all the time she held that position, she never had met the man in more than a passing instance.
Except for now, as she sat in his office, fighting awe-filled anxiety that had her engaged in unconscious hand wringing.
“You’ll be fine. In person he is actually quite nice,” Wil Armenio said with a comforting tone as he patted her hands to stillness.
“Don’t sound too shocked when you say that.”
With a barely contained squeal, Michelle jumped to her feet, finding the Councilor standing in the doorway behind her. A wide smile captivated her immediately as he entered and firmly grasped Wil’s outstretched hand.
“Well, you do have a knack for bombast,” Wil joked.
“Guilty as charged,” the other man laughed, a slight Cajun lilt to his words. “Wil, how are you? So, sorry for being late. I got caught up on the East Side.”
“No apology needed, Councilor. I’d like you to meet Michelle Lafkin, she is Ruth’s deputy.”
The powerful gaze turned to Michelle as he said, “Ah, the amazing Michelle! Wil continually raves about the fine work you’ve been doing.”
Flustered more than she would admit in a retelling, she managed to stammer a reply. “Th–thank you. Councilor.” She silently cursed herself for briefly forgetting the honorific.
“You arrived last year from the Tennessee mountain camp, correct? Amazing story from the bits I have heard. Simply amazing.”
As they settled back into their seats, Councilor Duncan reclined easily in the large leather executive chair behind his desk. Perhaps sensing her star-struck muteness, Wil led the conversation through the food preparation plans while she simply listened and observed. Occasionally the Councilor would ask a question, but Wil answered each, far more ably than Michelle could have done.
She chided herself for being surprised with the even tone the adept leader used in the discussion. So used to hearing him deliver speeches to large audiences, she had half expected the same volume and force when the man first began to speak. Instead he spoke gently, though with no less authority, in a tone that was mesmerizing and faintly familiar. He could read the phone book and I’d be drooling, she thought. As the two men conversed, Michelle let her eyes wander to the wall behind the Councilor, though still letting his voice sing in her mind.
A large reprint of what she guessed to be a medieval painting hung in a heavy gilt frame. Towards each corner of the print was a circle with figures engaged in some sort of activity. The center held a much larger circle divided into seven sections, with a smaller circle inset with what appeared to be an image of Jesus Christ. There were smatterings of Latin text throughout the graphic but from her distance, Michelle could not read them clearly.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Adam Duncan asked her.
Blushing briefly with embarrassment at having her wandering attention noticed, she nodded. “Yes, it is.” Well, at least you managed not to stutter this time.
“It’s called The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things. The original is an oil on wood panel from the sixteenth century, Hieronymus Bosch is the artist. I’ve had that print for longer than I can remember. It sounds foolish, but it was one of the first things I packed before leaving the States.”
“We all have those odd items that we can’t part with,” Wil replied, intoning in a way that led Michelle to believe there were perhaps a great many things lost to him since the outbreak. One certainly did not think to bring keepsakes on a vacation.
“What does it say?” she asked.
Rising from his chair, he waved Michelle forward and began to show her the various sections and translate the writing.
“The top says, ‘For they are a nation void of counsel, neither is there any understanding in them.’ And this down here is, ‘O that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end!’ The sections in the middle are the seven deadly sins, Accidia is sloth, Invidia is Envy, Ira is wrath or anger, Gula is gluttony…”
Councilor Adam Duncan continued his tutorial, translating the remaining sins and the inscriptions in the four outer circles. Michelle had ceased to focus however; she had in fact, ceased to breath. Her eyes bored into the bottom section of the main circle. Ira. Wrath. The soft lilt to the word as he said it immediately brought forth the memory of her last visit to the library.
Questions flooded her thoughts, confusion quickened her pulse. She realized that the Councilor had stopped speaking and was staring at her, waiting for a response to a comment she had not heard. She vaguely remembered saying, “Yes, very beautiful,” before forcing her legs to return her to her seat.
The meeting lasted several more minutes in what now was a stiflingly hot office. Yet for all that heat, none of it touched her blood as it wove an icy course through her veins.
Chapter Seven
A gray sky hung low and a fine mist of rain mixed with the damp salt air, muting warmth as well as spirits. Paul stood silently as the Stryker vehicles and tanks were driven down the pier and loaded onto the ships. June had arrived, and with it a near constant torrential downpour that had forced the mission’s deployment to be postponed. Though the seas still thrashed, he and General Reed had agreed that today’s break in the rain was enough to rouse the team from its restless waiting, finally green lighting the mission. He would have preferred a more temperate forecast, if only to lessen the ominous sensation created by the darkened clouds.
The crews’ movements were marked by a sluggishness that stemmed not from exhaustion, rather from their unsettled attitudes toward the mission. Paul had given each member of the fifty-person team the option of resigning their service, and though to a one they had refused, it was clear that their imminent departure crystalized the reality of the undertaking. Nor was he, himself, immune from the sentiment. While he had spent the better part of the year in New Cuba preparing, and advocating, this very action, he could not dispel the unease he now felt. I’m either embarking on one of the greatest rescues in history, or stumbling into the most foolish of suicidal endeavors, he mused, trying to ignore the chill of the early morning.
Lisa had already boarded, taking their belongings to the small cabin they would share, but Paul felt his presence on the pier would hopefully provide some small measure of encouragement. After the first half-hour, he realized that his team was so intent on their actions that his presence was in fact hardly noticed. He briefly toyed with seeking the shelter of the cabin, but decided against it for worry that his leave-taking would be noticed and resented. So, now I’m soaked through, cold, and standing on a pier for no apparent reason, he thought sarcastically. This is starting out great.
To his great relief, the cargo and gear loading process was soon completed. The last lines were cast off when the ships’ engines roared to life, leaving behind a white froth on the water as they moved into the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
The change in mission had also presented a change in the ships the team were assigned. In addition to a medium-sized cargo carrier that was transporting the assaul
t vehicles, the Council had also approved the use of a United States Coast Guard cutter. The Mohawk, the mission’s command ship, had an acclaimed history in both rescue and enforcement. Prior to the outbreak, it had been dispatched to assist the recovery effort in the aftermath of the Haitian earthquake in 2010. If the armored vehicles had not already added to the importance of the mission, the massive floating fortress certainly did. Paul had toured it several times in the last weeks in an attempt to familiarize himself with the layout, yet he still lost his way heading to the mess that evening.
By midday the heavy rains had returned, and the depths churned with renewed agitation. The constant heaving of the ship was taking its toll on Paul as he sat there, pushing food around his plate with a fork. His stomach would not allow him to partake in the meal, but he wanted to assess the mood of the team now the mission was underway.
As he studied the faces of those around him, he could see that he was not the only one suffering from the ship’s tossing. Those able to eat did so quietly so that the only noise to be heard was the soft clink of forks on plates. Paul feared that two days aboard the vessel would only worsen the mood, especially if the storm outside continued to rage. In times of declining moral on the mountain, Mike Allard had always relied on him to “work his magic” as he put it, easing any worry. Now, he was at a loss to provide the same type of encouragement to his team. His few attempts at conversation had been rebuffed through small grunts and one word responses. Crafting an impromptu speech in his head, Paul found the words lacking. Mike was the one that could address a group and have them cheering, he thought sourly, as the sadness of his old friend’s troubles came to mind. Just as he was about to rise and speak, the tell-tale sound of a harmonica broke the silence.
