How the World Ends (16 page)

For the first time, I am quite certain that Bill Thomas is at a lack for words without simply buying more time to speak.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve claimed responsibility for a kill that wasn’t yours, sir.”

Thomas pauses for a moment, and then almost smiles as he strides ahead to lead the group forward. As he passes the man who just spoke, I hear him say, quietly, “You’ll address me as Sergeant Thomas, Corporal Rogers. I’m not a ‘sir’ yet.”

I can’t help but think that he most likely never will be, either. But it doesn’t overshadow the fact that he didn’t answer my question, nor that Corporal Rogers seemed to provide an easy means for him to sidestep me and take up the front position.

Directionless, we head somewhat north along the side of the highway.

There are no cars, and the light of the day does not outshine our gloom.

From time to time I glance back, and I see a glint of shiny hair from the woman who is following us, whom I have not met yet.

I pay no attention to the clouds that seem to hover over the remains of the city, far behind us now.

…

Jonah

The pain turns to colors. Sparks and streams of light define my non-waking reality, in this world beyond sleep, where it is still possible to feel. The colors become thoughts. The thoughts become visions. The first image is a line of soldiers, walking slowly forward, one by one handing their weapons to Ruben, who puts them into a wheelbarrow, and turns them into a puff of grey mist. The next is my sister in law, Lucia. She is in her wedding dress, with a man to each side and one behind her, each wearing white tuxedos. Another man is in front of her with his back to me. He steps sideways to show an expanding blood stain from Lucia’s stomach. All of them except for her collapse, clutching their heads in agony.

This last vision is of Rachel, standing with a shovel under the oak tree where my parents were buried. Little Gwyn is riding in the wheelbarrow, while Jewel sits beside it. Rachel looks directly at me, but does not speak. The tears trickling down her face are reflected by the bright sunlight, and I struggle to turn my head away from the scene. Despite my curiosity, some force within me does not allow me to see what she is digging with that shovel.

Just as begin to suspect it is a grave, the power of lucidity brushing past my consciousness strikes me into wakefulness once more. I groan as only the truly broken and torn can groan; I feel that I have earned the right.

Squinting my eyes open, I see the clear blue sky above me and I feel the warmth of the day seeping into my battered limbs. My shoulder feels like it might be dislocated and my ribs hurt when I try to breathe. My mouth feels like it is lined with sandpaper. My tongue is like shard of wood, poking more soreness into my cheeks as it roams around my mouth in a violent search for moisture.

Somebody holds my head and I feel coldness trickle down my throat. A raspy, spastic cough is all the thanks I can muster.

I try to remain awake, but I cannot help drifting off once more.

…

Lucia

She trails the small group for three days. One of them always leaves a portion from his meal where she can find it. She recognises him from when he stood with Jonah as he stopped the crowds from throwing themselves at that building before they stepped into it. Strange how that seems, thinking back. Strange how this will all seem, most likely, once a bit of time has thrown some perspective over it.

Perspective. Vision. Knowledge. These are all concepts, thinks Lucia, that escape us when our lives are in transition. When our worlds have ended, we cannot know what tomorrow will bring. We find ourselves relying on a stranger leaving half-empty army rations on the side of the road to survive.

She finds herself looking for the slight glint of sunlight as it is refracted off his eyes when he searches in her direction. She finds herself wondering at how she can feel this longing, this ache, for companionship, when continued existence itself seems an uncertainty. If there was ever room in life for love, there most definitely should not be now. Love is the ultimate luxury that could not be afforded, especially by those who wield the power on this earth.

Is that it?
Is it this new powerlessness that has brought on such an affectation of weakness?

Or is the realization that power has never been but an illusion, whereas the longing, the need for duality, is a new idea.

Lucia continues to shadow the group as she wrestles with her inner dilemmas.

Chapter Nineteen – Blood Brothers

Jonah

Eventually, I awaken properly. I know that this is so because I become immediately aware that two things are wrong. First: we are going the wrong way. Second: there are only ten members of our group that I can see, when I know there were at least several hundred people in the tunnel. They should not be left to fend for themselves.

With an effort, I roll over and stand up. Well, almost. I actually manage to prop myself on an elbow while somewhat making the appearance of trying to rise. Nine faces look wearily in my direction from around a small campfire. Their expressions tell me that I have probably done this before, and that they are becoming tired of my feeble attempts. A little more effort, and a lot of pain from those ribs down there (they must be broken, or at least cracked), and I am standing, actually, on two feet. My own.

“Where is everyone,” are my first words, almost a question, but I am not yet coherent enough to make it seem so to my companions. “There were a lot of people in the tunnel. Where are they now?”

The eyes of my companions seem to soften. One of them whom I have not met, and dressed in army fatigues, approaches me.

“Bill Thomas,” he says, reaching out his hand in greeting. I shake it, without much vigour. He pulls his hand back quickly as if he has been stung.

“Ouch!” he cries out. “I keep forgetting about this cut on my hand.”

He shows me his hand which is now covered with blood – apparently both his and mine. “I have the same problem,” I say. “I hope I haven’t infected you.”

He scoffs a bit at that, as if that it is the worry furthest from his mind. “Those are my men over there.”

I eye him for a minute before turning to my friends, the ones whom I know must have worked hard to carry me from that tunnel to wherever we are now.

“Herb,” I begin, “where are we?”

He stands and brushes his shabby pants off. “We’re three days out of the city, Jonah,” he says. “And by all rights, you should be dead.” He comes over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, and I notice for the first time that he is nearly as tall as I am, well over six feet. “You had a heck of a weight on your back.”

I almost chuckle, but the initial effort nearly doubles me over. I do give him a grimaced smile at the attempt of humour, though.
I guess someone wants me alive, then,
I think to myself as I glance over at the old minister in her robes, stirring something in a little pot by the fire. She is the only one who does not look over at me. I can’t help but wonder if she had seen Gabe back at the church. I almost get the feeling she knew something all along that I didn’t. Probably a lot of things. I wonder about her. She seems too much like Gabe and Michael – except less... disturbing. It seems that those two have been pulling my strings the whole time. I feel the need to change that progression, to start being the one making decisions.

“You want some stew?” Herb asks, bringing me out of my silent reverie. “These army boys have enough rations to keep us going for a while.”

I look sideways him, grinning as a thought is placed in my mind. “I’d rather go fishing,” I say.

The others, now convinced that I am not going to collapse and drift back into unconsciousness, rise and move towards us at the edge of the flickering firelight. They seem to be looking to me for some sort of guidance, and for once I seem to have an idea that feels solid to me, that makes sense.

“Don’t wait for me,” says the old lady, over by the fire, not having moved with the rest of the group. “I already know what he’s going to say.”

“And what’s that, Angie?” asks Steven, peering back at her, ever the suspicious one.

She doesn’t speak, just raises her luminous eyebrows and turns back to the fire.

I hesitate for a moment, waiting to see if she will reveal herself further. When she does not, I begin my short appeal to my unlikely companions.

“My friends, you have disappointed me,” I begin. Looks ranging from consternation and disgust to near horror echo across their faces. “You have let our people spread to the wind. We had a chance to lead all those people, those precious few who followed us out of that city, through that hole in the ground, out to a place where they can start again. You have let them wander off like lost sheep in a forest.”

“We kept you alive, Jonah,” says Susan. “We have carried you and dragged you for miles, and you mean to tell us now that we should have left you back there?”

I look back towards the fire, where Angie is now looking directly back at me, piercing me with her gaze. “You didn’t keep me alive,” I tell them. “She did.” And I point at the angel, or whatever she is, by the fire. She rises and carries the tin pot of hot food over to us.

She hands it to me, or rather pushes it into my chest, saying, “It doesn’t matter what you say, Jonah.” She turns back to the fire and sits back down. “It matters what you do.”

Everyone, completely enraptured at this point, and, I am sure, vastly disillusioned about what I am about to say, turns as one back to me. Their faces, although painted in the different complexions of who they were days ago, have merged into a group that I see now in a completely different way; they are special to me. It is more than that they have cared for me, more than the guidance they expect to get from me, if indeed they expect such a thing at all. No. These people have chosen their fate in a special way, and it gives me the courage to express my simple, yet conquering demand to them.

“Rest tonight, and tomorrow we will split up to gather everyone together again. We don’t know what the world is like anymore, and our people are vulnerable without our help.”

“How do we know where to go?” Steven has his arms crossed now.

“Well, nobody can have travelled very far in two or three days, so I guess there is about a thirty mile radius. Forty, I figure, if some people went southwest along the lakeshore.

“I don’t know what everyone will do, but most likely they will congregate together in small groups, either helping each other out, or trying to take what another group has. We don’t have much time before everyone starts to get desperate for food.

“My plan is to lead as many people as we can to the country north-east of here. I grew up there and know the neighbourhood. Most people don’t know it, but a rural community can support a lot of people. I think that’s our best bet.”

A new voice speaks up from the shadows beyond the fire.

“You just can’t wait to get back to mummy and daddy’s perfect little farmhouse, can you, Jonah,” says Lucia, her voice hoarse and cracked. “Who do you think you are, ordering these people around like you’re in charge? Don’t you know what they’ve been through?”

I look over at Herb, who has risen to stand beside Lucia.

“Yes, he does,” Bill says simply. “And I am happy to see you finally joining our fire, instead of just eating Herb’s leftovers; now I don’t have to tell Corporal Rogers to give him twice as much food.”

I look back and forth between them, Lucia, Herb and Bill, momentarily baffled.

“We’ll split up in the morning,” I say at last. “If you have any preference of travelling partners,” I raise my eyebrow at Lucia, “then I suggest you tell them know about it. In the morning, we’ll sort everything out and get started.”

Lucia raises an eyebrow right back at me as she lets Herb take her by the arm and leads her to the fire.

Not to my surprise, but to my infinite gratitude, none speak. My friends simply nod and settle back down around the fire. So much of life is unspoken, but at times silence conveys more than any words could possibly say. We all know that there are unknowns in life; we have all had our lives unearthed and scattered. And yet a purpose has presented itself in our hearts, and it seems like that is enough for now, to hold us together. The more I think about it, the more I am glad we do not speak, for here in the quiet of the woods at the side of the road, the presence of God seems to beckon us forward, and I dare not interrupt.

I gather up the contents of my palette and distribute the blankets around to those who have none. I take my last grey blanket and sit down beside Angie, hoping to share the warmth of her spirit, if nothing else.

After a while, almost in a whisper, she begins to speak. By this time most of the others are asleep, but I can feel Bill’s eyes on us. “The first trouble with shepherds,” she says quietly, “is that the peace loving cowards that lead the flock with the best of intentions invariably get killed by the first wolf or lion that comes along.” She looks at me with eyes cast in transparent steel. “The second trouble is that even if he loves peace, but still has the courage to kill that lion with his bare hands, he inevitably has to give up the fight sometime. We all have to sleep. We all have to die.”

She takes a long slow breath before continuing.

“But the flock will live on. He will turn around and those sheep will be goats. Goats are smarter than sheep, but they are harder to keep together. He can’t follow a bunch of goats and push them before him, but I believe he could lead them.”

She turns away and stares out into the darkness of the night.

I lean my head close to hers. “Who are you?” I whisper.

“I am old,” she replies, even quieter. “And I know that a real blessing is the touch of one’s spirit upon the living flesh of another. The effect is quite something to behold, I must say.” She smiles, taking my hand in hers.

We sit there beside the dying fire for a long time, that old woman and I. My thoughts turn to Rachel, and I wonder why I have committed myself to so many tasks that seem to take me farther from her. I idly spin the gold ring on the third finger of my left hand. Closing my eyes, I can almost feel the soft touch of Jewel’s cheek against mine, or the light sleeping breath of Gwyn’s dreams against my face. I hope that they are safe. I know where they are headed.