Last Days Trilogy

by Jacqueline Druga

  “No,” Reggie answered. “And stop.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Did you two survive that?”

  “Fortunately,” Reggie said.

  “Injuries?” he scanned them with his flashlight.

  “We need to get cleaned up,” Reggie said.

  “And a place to rest. But first,” Marcus looked at the soldier, “can you tell us where we are? We’ve lost our bearings.”

  “About two miles east of Valparaiso,” the private answered.

  “Yes!” Marcus exclaimed. “I was right.”

  “Aw,” Reggie whined. “You win, don’t gloat.”

  The private shifted his eyes back and forth. “Do you two need a place to go or what? Because we can’t stand out here all night.”

  “Yes. Yes we do.,” Reggie said. “How far is it? We walked a hundred miles today.”

  “Dina,” Marcus corrected. “We did not.”

  “Seemed like it.”

  “I’m sure...” the private interrupted their bickering, “I’m sure we can accommodate you. Follow me.” He started to walk toward the rest of the vehicles.

  “Hope you don’t mind but we have to keep our distance,” Reggie said. “We smell pretty bad.”

  The private shook his head. “There’s a refugee shelter about five miles from here, or... do you have money?”

  “Yes,” Reggie said, “Pocket money. Some. Why? You aren’t going to roll us, are you?”

  “No. There’s a small motel four miles away. Not very nice. The owner insisted on staying open.” The private stopped as they neared a jeep. “Your choice. We’re authorized to take refugees to either place. But we have to get you someplace, you can’t be out wandering around.”

  Reggie looked at the soldier. “Refugee shelter? Like with tents and watery soup and lots of people complaining?”

  “Or a dumpy motel,” Marcus restated. “No choice, I hate crowds.” He turned back to the soldier. “Dumpy motel.”

  “Got it,” the private said. “Hop in and I’ll be right back with my book. We have to register all refugees found wandering out here.”

  Reggie and Marcus loaded their things in the back of the jeep as the young soldier walked to his Sergeant. They chuckled when he reported he was taking Martin and Lewis to shelter.

  It was the epitome of tacky, fake paneling, a lopsided double beds, and the overwhelming odor of stale disinfectant. But it was a roof over their heads. And safety, at least for the night, the first such place in a while.

  The soldier supplied them with fresh clothes and the owner of the hotel contributed a razor. Marcus and Reggie thanked them effusively.

  In his fatigue, Marcus thought he heard Reggie talking to herself. But when he stepped from the bathroom, clad in his matching military boxers and tee shirt, he found her talking on a phone…the Herbie flip phone. Her peaceful smile gave away the party on other end. He stopped and moved off to the side to watch.

  “I know,” she spoke softly. “I have to go. Miss you, too. Love you. Bye.” Reggie stared at the phone for a moment, and then flipped it shut. “I love how that just closes and ends the call.”

  “You’ll have that.” Marcus loved when Reggie would magically transform from the edgy, sarcastic, ‘everything is fine’ person to the mellow, loving mother. He stepped to her. “Seth?”

  “Yeah,” Reggie smiled. “He’s fine. He misses me. My Dad will be here by morning.”

  Marcus closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he said. “And my family?”

  “Everyone’s fine, Marcus. More worried about us than anything. He said he wouldn’t go into any details; he’ll update us when he gets here.”

  “Did he say anything else?” Marcus asked.

  “He said to get some sleep.”

  Marcus raised a finger. “Ah, a Kyle instruction I will gladly follow.”

  “Me, too. After...” Reggie pointed to the bathroom. “I wash my hair one more time.”

  “You go on. I think...” Marcus grinned when he spotted the TV, “I think I’ll watch the television.”

  “Sounds good.”

  As the bathroom door shut, Marcus flopped down at the end of the bed near the television.

  “What is this? The Middle Ages?” he muttered. No cable or remote, only a rabbit-ear antenna. He turned on the set. Just static. But there was hope, a voice. Marcus fiddled with the antenna.

  The Capitol Building, Washington, DC

  Four police cars, escorting a black limousine, screeched to a halt outside the Capitol building. Leonard O’Neill, the CIA Director, stepped from the back of the limousine and gazed over a throng of reporters and citizens. Joel Carson, Assistant Director of the CIA, greeted him at the base of the steps.

  “What’s going on?” Leonard asked. “I just stepped off the plane and no one will tell me anything.”

  “We weren’t sure until about twenty minutes ago” Joel replied. He motioned for two of his men to escort them up the steps.

  The four Domino Pizza trucks and the ambulances made food poisoning come immediately to Leonard’s mind. “Someone get sick?” he asked.

  “The guards stationed in front,” Joel answered, pushing open the lobby door.

  On entering, they heard loud sobs echoing in the hollow emptiness of the huge marble building. Leonard’s eyes fixed on the Domino Pizza man who sat in tears down the hall.

  “Two guards with bad pizza? What does this have to do with me?” He winced at the loud whimpers of the pizza guy as they neared him.

  “Everything,” Joel said.

  “Was there a security breach?”

  “A national breach.”

  “What?” They made their way to the chambers where Congress and the senate met with the President. The closer they got, the more police and agents they encountered.

  “We had to wait until you got here before we starting clearing out.”

  “Clear what out, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Okay, sir, let me start from the beginning,” the CIA man said. “Madeline, President Nelson’s secretary, arranged dinner for the closed session to be delivered at twenty-one hundred hours. The dinner arrived, they started bringing it up…” Joel reached for one side of the closed double doors. “And they found this.” He pushed it open.

  Leonard reeled and gasped as an overwhelming foulness assaulted his nostrils. Covering his mouth, he stepped inside the silent chambers, filled to capacity with the members of Congress and the President, all of whom were present. But motionless. Some were slumped in their chairs, others prone on the floor, while the President himself was draped over the podium.

  “Oh my God!”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Joel said. “It was an emergency and secret session. No designated survivor was in place.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “That means you need to tell me how to proceed. You’re in charge... Mr. President.”

  Haskell, Indiana

  Wearing a towel and her brightest smile, Reggie flung open the bathroom door with an, “Ah,” she sang out, “my hair finally passed the squeak test.” She stepped into the hotel room. “Six times, Marcus. Six.” She paused when she saw him. “Marcus?”

  Marcus didn’t move. He sat on the edge of the bed, his face inches from the television screen.

  “Marcus?”

  He turned toward her, fingers over his mouth.

  Hurriedly, Reggie sat next to him on the bed. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Marcus placed his hand on her knee and gripped, then released, then gripped, as he deeply exhaled over and over. His eyes traveled back and forth from the television to Reggie.

  Marcus swallowed. “Power. Control. Were they reluctant to stop him? Or didn’t they have the means? Is that why they didn’t? There has to be a reason.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t make sense. Though maybe in the big scheme of things it does. I guess there has to be only one leader. Or... make room for one
leader. I suppose that could be it.”

  “Marcus.”

  “They’re all dead, Reg.”

  “What? Who?” Reggie asked, growing pale.

  Marcus shifted his eyes to her. “The House. The Senate. The President. The entire Democratic system...” He looked back to the television. “Dead.”

  The Capitol Building, Washington, DC

  Were America not asleep, the country might have witnessed what the reporters and people did on the steps of the Capitol, the numbness and shock of the aftermath, as body after body was brought out. At the same time, as the power of presidential ascendancy dictated, the Head of the CIA, Leonard O’Neill was being sworn in as President of the United States.

  That was the first order of business. It was done without ceremony. Then he would deliver his first official pronouncement to the American people.

  A podium was set up not far from the Capitol steps, surrounded by microphones and a barrage of reporters.

  A White House spokesmen, still choking in grief, introduced O’Neill. After simply stating, “There’s been a tragedy,” the White House spokesman announced, “Mr. President” as he moved away from the podium.

  Leonard stepped forward, his eyes closed, his bowed head signaling a moment of silence.

  Afterward, he shivered out a breath. “President William Nelson. The Senate. Congress. They joined today to discuss a national emergency. At approximately eight-thirty p.m., Eastern Standard Time, a chemical weapon was released into the ventilation system, killing all members of the cabinet, from what we can tell, instantly.” He held his hand up to silence the barrage of questions. “Several...” His tone rose. “Several groups have already come forward, taking credit for this action.”

  “Sir!” a reporter yelled out. “Will this be your first order of business as President?”

  “Before emergency cabinet members are selected, we must do what we can to take control of the situation. Right now, the FBI and CIA are compiling lists of those involved with these organizations. Arrests will be made. Procedures may not be followed. National security in this instance outweighs civil rights. We will question first, then release. If I have to do it myself, I will. This will be... a massive sweep.” Leonard tried to walk away but stopped for one more shouted question.

  “In the wake of all these horrific happenings, can this massive sweep be effectively executed?”

  Leonard was silent for a moment, and then stared intently to the woman reporter who asked the question. “I believe because of these horrific happenings, we must be even more effective in our execution. I predict a widespread public outcry, a mandate from the American people. In more ways than one.” He paused, and then looked at his audience. “Now is the time for humanity to shine, not to be led like animals to the slaughter, to our own extinction. With the help of the people, and the information we have already received, we will find out who is responsible. No one is above suspicion. We’re ready. We’re going at it full-force. And when we find those responsible, I guarantee a swift and harsh punishment. In fact, it has already begun.”

  President O’Neill walked away, escorted by security.

  CHAPTER NINE

  St. Paul’s Cathedral

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Seven o’clock Mass was never a favorite for Father Peter Mahoney. He didn’t usually move well on Sunday morning, as he tended to watch rented movies late on Saturday nights. No organ played and no choir sang when he’d say the first Mass. He didn’t have time for it, and knew those who came to his service that early weren’t up for it either. They, like Father Mahoney, just wanted to get in and out. Back to bed and to sleep was all he thought as he walked back to the altar after communion. He appreciated those celebrants who trickled into his early morning service; they deemed his early Mass the Cliffs Notes of Sunday church.

  On this particular Sunday, things were different.

  Father Mahoney did expect more than the usual handful in light of the tragic events. But by seven the crowd had swelled so much that he returned to the rectory to awaken Father David. Gazing out at the packed congregation, Father Mahoney couldn’t help but feel a sense of doom in the air, a hopelessness mirrored in the sea of faces.

  He felt his flock hungered for words of comfort, but, ill-prepared, all he could do was rattle off his favorite passages and platitudes. What else could he say at a time like this?

  “And for that we can only pray.” Father Mahoney lowered his head. “God Bless you.” He stepped back from the pulpit and walked to the center altar. Arms extended, he addressed the saddened faces. “Let’s us stand now and profess our faith.”

  The congregation rumbled to their feet, a comforting echo in the church, one that also subdued a foreign banging sound coming from the massive church doors. Fr. Mahoney led them in prayer.

  “I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible....”

  Then a second, third, then a fourth bang.

  “I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. God from God, Light from Light …”

  Up the aisle of the church came the heavy tromp of boots. Then the shifting of weapons, as a line of soldiers, led by two suited men, walked toward the altar.

  “True God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father...”

  Fr. Mahoney heard his flock stutter momentarily in prayer. “Keep praying,” he ordered defiantly, eyes closed, raising his head to the heavens.

  The congregation’s words were laced with fear and hysteria. All eyes were locked on the two-dozen men who had invaded their holy ground.

  “Through him all things were made. For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven

  A suited man, one Special Agent Harris, stepped to the foreground and announced in a strong authoritarian voice, “The following people please step forward.” He looked up at the priest. “Father Peter Mahoney.”

  “By the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man.”

  “Father David Garfield.”

  “For our sake He was crucified under Pontius Pilate...”

  “Michael Albright. Jason Letterman. Robert Haynes. Donald Cross...” Agent Harris called out each name deliberately and clearly.

  As he did, four men stepped into the aisles, apprehensive, but still chanting the prayer, their eyes on the priests, who had gathered on the main altar.

  Father Mahoney and Father David held their ground.

  “Andrew Michaelis and Anthony Hawkins.”

  “He suffered death and was buried. And rose again on the third day in accordance with the scriptures.”

  Agent Harris motioned his head. “Let’s go.” He gestured to the two priests on the altar.

  “He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.”

  Fr. Mahoney and Father David closed their eyes, braced themselves, and prayed.

  “He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. And His kingdom will have no end.”

  “No!” A woman cried out, halting the prayer, as four soldiers rushed the altar and seized Father Mahoney and Father David, dragging them from their firm stand.

  “You gentlemen are being taken into custody,” Harris declared. “You will be detained for questioning.”

  Fr. Mahoney stared at his shocked congregation as he was handcuffed, then began to pray aloud again, “I believe...

  “In the Holy Spirit, the Lord the giver of life. Who proceeds with the Father and the Son.”

  Cries and sobs, overwhelming, accompanied the prayer.

  “With the Father and Son he is adored and glorified.”

  The other six men were handcuffed and taken away too.

  Harris spoke over the prayers and murmurs of protest. “You will be released. You have done nothing.”

  “Who has spoken through the prophets?”

  A soldier shoved Fr. Mahoney down the main a
isle, needlessly, a scowl on his young face. Two men dove from their seats to stop it.

  “I believe in one Holy Catholic and Apostolic church...”

  Agent Harris, mildly annoyed, twitched his head and two quick shots rang out. There were screams, the prayers ended. Father Mahoney’s would-be saviors dropped dead in the aisle, each shot cleanly through the temple.

  “Move it.” Agent Harris took charge of Father Mahoney as his soldier escorts snapped to about-face, then led the priest down the aisle, flanked by six of his men, saying, “You are being charged with the following crimes: Terrorist threats. Terrorist actions. Crimes against the State...”

  Fr. Mahoney sighed and slumped forward, the tips of his shoes dragging on the floor, but mustered the wherewithal to call out to his flock, “Keep praying! I confess....”

  “...confess one baptism for the forgiveness of sins...”

  “Crimes against the government...”

  “...I look forward to the resurrection of the dead...”

  “Crimes against the United States.”

  “...and life of the world to come...”

  “Crimes against Humanity.” The door slammed. Agent Harris was the last one through and he murmured, “Amen,” with a grin.

  Haskell, Indiana

  The eyes.

  Peaceful. So green. The voice, soothing.

  Yet Marcus couldn’t make out the face. Only the eyes, their corners graced with fine lines, not so much older, but wise.

  “I will need her, Marcus,” he spoke. “I will need her.”

  “Marcus,” another voice said.

  “I will need her, Marcus.”

  “Marcus.”

  Marcus opened his eyes. “Reg?”

  She was leaning over him as he lay on top of the bed. “Did you fall back asleep?”

  “Um, yeah.” Marcus rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  “You okay?”