The Apostates (73 page)

“Why yes: but only as far as the former
Capital. I need to perform some reconnaissance,” Evan confessed.

“Wait, you’re not coming with the fleet?
I’m the only one?” Greta asked like she was being excluded from a party.

“Well, not entirely. I’ll be tagging along,” Jasper Wynham answered her question. Greta would miss her old friends, but she was anxious to leave New Megiddo and see the world. The many souls who perished in the nuclear detonation still weighed heavily on her conscience. She felt that helping the refugees to a new land was something she had to do; penance. And, she wanted a new beginning somewhere besides New Megiddo. She wanted to leave the ghost of “Marco Havenscent” behind.

“Well, everyone: It’s about time.” Elsa
hoped to get the convoy going.

“Consuela, shall we?” Evan suggested. The Apostates embraced one last time and all went their separate ways. The Bilsby passenger liners steamed out of the Manhattan port. Greta had been ferried back to the Apostate battleships. She took command of the North Carolina but lamented the loss of the capabilities of the Iowa. The two fleets converged near Ellis Island and the battleships assumed the lead, to protect the passenger liners in case of a “remnant Regime” navy attack.

After the formations were worked out the combined fleet steamed out to the Atlantic, which carried the exhausted and bruised refugees, who anticipated their new lands, passed by the ruin of an odd-shaped island. On the island was a massive, stone “temple” pedestal, with a pair of green, bronze feet from a colossal statue that had long ago been toppled. At the base of the temple was a dusty and weathered plaque. There was an ancient poem that could still be delineated. The inscription read:

“The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to
land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall
stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes
command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities
frame.

“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!”
cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired,
your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe
free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to
me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

— A poem by Emma Lazarus

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Alexander Burke laid in his hospital bed wearing a medical ventilator mask. Decades of smoking had caught up with him. He had started back in the War, as he had been a gunnery private on the U.S.S. Iowa. He had continued the habit for thirty-five years afterward. By the time he had the urge to quit it had been too late. His diaphragm had given out. Later he was diagnosed with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, or Emphysema. He could no longer breath automatically. He had worked out profusely for years, and built up the muscles of his upper body, which allowed him to breathe manually. Through pure force of will, he had probably extended his life for another twenty years, where most would have given up and resigned themselves to their fates.

But, time had marched on. Burke had retired from his teaching position in the San Francisco Unified School district and enjoyed a dozen happy years of traveling Europe and Latin America with Greta. The two of them had enjoyed time with their grandchildren, from their single daughter. Greta had been the first to succumb to medical ailments. She battled cancer for two years, but eventually lost, and passed-away peacefully in her sleep. Burke was thankful that she did not suffer. And, now here he was, at the twilight of his life, staring down death. Burke had lived to see many historical events in his lifetime, and times had indeed changed.

The new millennium had come too fast for
Burke. The analog technology that had been a staple for so much of his lifetime
was on the way out, and the Digital Age had begun in earnest. But, it had not
started the way he would have wished it had. In the late Nineties, Burke had
learned about D.A.R.P.A. and Total Information Awareness. He had written
critiques on the program and warned against the technology’s use for ill-means.
No one had paid attention to his pleas: he was labeled a wingnut; a crazy coot,
with eccentric ideas. In time he had run out of energy for such pursuits;
warnings for a new generation. It had come time to pass the torch.

Then it had happened: a fateful terror
attack on American soil. The war drums sounded, and rational discourse had been
left in the dust. The rush to war was the order of the day.

“How are we doing Mr. Burke? Are we hanging in there?” Burke’s physician walked into the room. He was a mild-mannered man, bespectacled and in good shape for his age. He had slightly balding hair, but still enough to keep a part. He wore a white coat and had the stethoscope hanging around his neck. Everything was fairly stock on the doctor, except for the scar on the side of his face and the darkened lens, on one side of his glasses.

“Yes,” was all he could mouth with the
mask on. Burke also flashed the doctor a thumbs up, followed up by a coughing
fit.

“Whoa, easy there! I’ll have the nurse
bring you some more water.” The doctor looked down at Burke’s exposed shoulder.
He gazed upon the faded anchor tattoo, accompanied by the words: “U.S.N. BB-61,
U.S.S. Iowa”.

“Interesting: were you in the Navy? What war?” The doctor asked Burke. Burke unable to speak, held up two fingers.

“Ah, World War Two. My father was in the War as well—I mean—on the other side. That’s how this happened,” the doctor informed him. Burke looked at him and flashed a smile, and gave another thumbs up gesture. It was a gesture of “no hard feelings”.

“Paging Doctor Tomo Inoguchi, paging
Doctor Tomo Inoguchi: please report to the emergency room,” the intercom
summoned Doctor.

“That’s me. Listen, you must be bored. I’ll turn on the tube for you. Gotta run!” Doctor Inoguchi grabbed the remote and turned on the television supported by an arm on the wall. He left the television on the first channel, which was a cable news network, then, Doctor Inoguchi was off. Burke watched the talking heads spout off. A program came on called “Squawk Talk” was on: it dealt with economic hearsay and “tinfoil hat” investment advice. The host was like a cartoon character. He was championing the “unstoppable march of the Dot Com stock”. He recommended investing fortunes into start-ups like Kozmodo dot com, Congo dot com, and Eharbor dot com. According to the host: they were all sure bets.

The program wrapped up, and a news recap
was aired. The anchor reported on the housing market. Apparently home prices
were rising with no end in sight. Suddenly, Burke’s heart started racing. The
anchor switched stories, and announced that President Schrubb had proclaimed a
second front in his “War on Terror”, and a clip of the President’s speech was
played. Burke’s heart skipped beats and he had trouble breathing.

“My fellow Americans: today Congress has
authorized me to take whatever measures I deem necessary to oust the ruthless
dictator who seeks nuclear weapons. I am acting on information collected by our
brave men and women in the intelligence community. They have overwhelming
evidence that the dictator possesses weapons of mass...” The broadcast
continued as Burke gasped for air. He turned blue, and his eyes rolled into
his head.

“...and so, I am sending our armed forces to the Middle East to remove the brutal dictator from power so that we do not wake up to the view of a mushroom cloud...” the President babbled on, while Burke’s vitals flatlined. An alarm sounded, and Burke did not stir.

“...thank you to all who remain patriotic and steadfast. God bless America, and good night...” the President concluded his address and walked off backstage. The camera cut back to the random anchor. Nurses, orderlies, and Doctor Inoguchi came running, to transfer Burke to the operating room, but they had arrived just a tad bit too late.

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Like What You Read?

The story of New Megiddo continues in the novella, “New Megiddo Rising” by Lars Teeney. Available now where ebooks are sold!

Would you like to write a review for the novel “The Apostates” by Lars Teeney? If you do I will give you a free copy of the “The Apostates Book 2: Remnants” when it is released.

Just email proof of your review to the email address below!

Acknowledgements:

Debra Payne, Clifton Hill, Jon Toler, Beta readers, Reviewers, and Critiquers, also anyone who purchased the novel!

Inquires should be emailed to:
Lars Teeney
[email protected]
http://larsteeney.tumblr.com
http://www.facebook.com/larsteeney

About the author:

Lars Teeney was born in Montana. After going to an art school in San Francisco, racking up insane student loans and working for years as a freelance designer for the start-up culture, he became burnt out. He abandoned the Bay Area for the Pacific North-west, where he could hike and bike to my heart’s content.

Although the idea for the book had been swimming around in my head and on random notebooks for 10 years, it wasn’t until my mother got sick that I received a memento mori that put I fire under my sack to write The Apostates.