Exodus: Book Two: Last Days Trilogy (3 page)

A black cloud hung over the Vatican. The clergy was disturbed, Cardinal Welsh included. The Pope had not shown his face or left his room since the doctors ordered a few hours of bed rest. It had been a while since anyone had spoken to him, so Cardinal Welsh approached the Pope’s private quarters.

The Cardinal carried his entire ruse, a tray of food, as he moved down the plush corridor to the private bedroom suite. He hesitated before the huge double doors, knocked once, then, balancing the tray with one hand, stepped inside.

“Holy Father,” he called out softly.

The television was on. The Cardinal saw only the Pope’s hand resting on the arm of the chair, its back toward him. Toting the tray, Cardinal Welsh couldn’t help but see the latest spectacle: Devante arrogantly raising his arms above the masses, gathered as if for a trip to the Heavens.

“God will hear our prayers.” Devante cried to the murmurs and shouts of the believers.

Cardinal Welsh spoke. “I brought you something to eat.” He set it on the table next to the chair. “Holy Father?”

No response.

He walked around the table. “Holy Father, are....” Cardinal Welsh gasped.

The Pope sat peacefully, eyes closed, head slumped. Reaching out tentatively, Cardinal Welsh touched his face, still lukewarm, but clearly and sadly dead.

Squatting over the blanket, Marcus accidentally dropped the pencil, then brightened as he watched it roll away from him. He picked it up and dropped it again.

“The floor’s buckling,” he muttered to himself.

He saw Reggie gagging over the sink in the dim light.

“Still sick, Reg?”

“Yes,” she replied weakly. “Can’t help it. Grape Gatorade and mint toothpaste.”

“Brush with water.”

“You said it would be harmful if I drank it.”

“Reg, you don’t have to drink it, just brush.”

“I might accidentally let some slip down my throat,” she said. “Or convince myself that it did and then I’d get sick anyhow.”

“Sorry I asked.” He tossed up his hands. “Suit yourself.”

“I will. And I’m surprised you aren’t sick.”

“From what?” Marcus questioned.

“From drinking the water.”

“I don’t swallow when I brush my teeth,” Marcus said with an edge to his voice. “I’m normal.

“Don’t snap at me.” Reggie wiped her mouth.

“Sorry.” Marcus said. “I don’t think our rescue workers broke for dinner last night. I think they broke for Milwaukee. They aren’t coming back.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Get out.” Marcus crossed the room to the door. “This room is close to the side door. Maybe if we can get a crawl space going, we can get to the glass out there.”

“We weren’t able to budge any concrete before.” Reggie came over to join him.

“There’s been a lot of shaking and trembling. Maybe something shook loose.”

“Well...” Reggie joined Marcus at the mound of rubble. “Let’s dig then.”

“...tragic day for Christians and Catholics as they awoke this morning to learn that Pope John Paul had passed away last night from an apparent heart attack. Officials from the Vatican are saying...”

Kyle shut off the radio to catch his bearings. He knew if he kept driving east he’d run into far too many people. The refugee traffic was already beginning to bottle up. They came from Chicago and the surrounding communities and as far away as Gary, Indiana, the closest refugee camp. So Kyle cut south onto a small two-lane road. Even though the traffic flow was heavy, he figured the authorities wouldn’t bother closing such a small road. He was wrong.

He turned off the ignition when he saw the Army barricade. Traffic was steadily flowing out of Chicago, and none was going in.

He rolled his window down when the soldier approached.

“Road’s closed, sir,” said the soldier.

“I didn’t know, I thought I could get in,” Kyle told him.

“No, sir. You’ll have to back up and turn around.”

“But I need to get into Chicago,” Kyle pleaded.

“No one gets in,” the soldier repeated with strained politeness. “Please back up.”

“My daughter is in there and I need...”

“There is a full-scale evacuation. If she’s in there, we’ll get her out.”

Kyle tossed the truck into gear and leaned out the open window. “Son, are all roads closed? Can you suggest a way I may be able to get in? I have to find her.”

The soldier hesitated, and then flipped through his clipboard. “There’s a route 30 that breaks off up by North Aurora into a secondary road. I don’t think that’s been closed yet.”

“Thank you.” Kyle smiled, sincerely. “Thank you very much.” He backed the truck up and turned into the grass off the road. He pulled out his map. “Thirty. Thirty. There.” He saw it was a good distance north and would take a while. But he had to try.

“And they make these every day?” Devante sat in the dining room of Rev. Bailey’s home, staring at the front page of a newspaper.

“Every day. And that’s not the only one,” Rev. Bailey said. “However, most people read the online version of these.”

“Online.”

“The internet it connects the world.”

“No wonder word of my presence has spread over the countryside.”

“You’re trending on social media.”

“What is that?”

“People open pages, it’s a way to connect.”

“Do I need one of these social media pages?”

“At this point a Devante Facebook profile is not needed.” Rev. Bailey sipped his coffee.

“What does this mean? The phrasing is odd.” Devante showed Rev. Bailey the headline of ‘FEMA takes over smoothly in evacuation.’

“The Federal Emergency Management Agency, FEMA. And Chicago getting blasted by fire from the sky is definitely an emergency. They have to get as many people out of there as possible. And by the headline, I would say it’s going well.”

“God does not intend for these people to get out.”

“God probably wasn’t thinking of...” Rev. Bailey peeked at the paper. “FEMA and Jack Ross.” He winked. “I’m sure God is not going to mind lives being saved.”

“There is a point to be made.”

“And you don’t think the destruction of Chicago, loss of life or not, is making a point?”

“What do you pretend to know of how God feels?” Devante thundered.

Rev. Bailey stammered, but no words came out.

“Would you not think I would be the better judge?” This came softly.

“Yes, but... Devante. Life is so precious.”

“Yes, it is,” Devante answered. “But God’s people waste it. It is time for them to see what they have and what they can lose. You know the reason I am here. And I will speak no more about it until after tomorrow. You have my speaking place chosen. Correct?”

“Yes.” Rev. Bailey nodded, his hands playing with his coffee cup.

Devante turned another page and stopped. “Regina.”

“Excuse me.” Rev. Bailey asked, his eyes going to the paper. Devante looked at a photograph of Reggie and Marcus. “Oh, yes,” Rev. Bailey said, “the woman trapped at the Institute.”

Devante closed his eyes. “I see them running. Free.”

“But they’re trapped. Aren’t they?”

“I see them running.” Devante opened his eyes and stared at the picture again. “Her life essence will not leave this earth.” he muttered. “We must get her. Regina. This Marcus Leon has her against her will. She is not his fiancée. She is nothing but his assurance of safety.”

“Why is she so important to you?” Rev. Bailey asked.

“I feel a connection to her. She was present at my birth. I would like her with us.”

“Then we must find her.” Rev. Bailey said. “I have a friend who works for The Times. Let me give him a call. If they’re out of that building, someone must have seen them.” Rev. Bailey stood up. “You have a vision of her? In these visions, do you see any road signs or landmarks?”

“I see her running.”

“Running. Yes.” The reverend cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll uh... just make that call.”

Devante continued to stare at the photograph of Reggie in the paper. Only at her.

For the first time, Kyle fully understood the phrase ‘God forsaken place.’ When he heard the news, he pulled off to the side of the road.

All that morning, as he headed to Route 30, the radio news was rife with FEMA self-testimonials: how efficiently they were evacuating Chicago, how eighty percent of the people were already out, how FEMA’s Jack Ross assured the population that nothing was coming from the sky, nor were there military threats from other countries. Finally, just five minutes before, FEMA went on record to state that the evacuation itself was merely precautionary, since a truly biblical debacle was the only thing that would justify it, and that it appeared nothing would occur.

Then someone mentioned that all rescue efforts at the Institute had been stopped. No one was looking for Reggie and Marcus. Not only that, the news speculated that Doctor Leon and Reggie were already out and on the run. Kyle wanted to believe it, but his feelings were mixed. Marcus was a wanted man, wanted for the murder of his assistant, for the abduction of Reggie.

Hogwash, Kyle thought. How could anyone buy that?

After a five-minute break to hyperventilate and fume, Kyle fired up the engine. Now he had even more incentive to find his daughter. He had to search her out. He had to. No one else was going to do it.

Reggie and Marcus had only a sorry-looking pile of displaced rubble to show for their hours of digging. Escaping was hard work.

Reggie’s hands bled at the knuckles, but the worst pain was under her short fingernails from grasping at debris and tossing it out to Marcus.

“Reg.” Marcus held the candle to the hole. “Come on out. My turn again.” He sidestepped a rock as it flew out. “Nice.”

“My last burst of energy. I think we’re making progress...” Reggie giggled. “I’m coming out.”

“You did good.”

“Yeah.” She brushed herself off with a less than enthusiastic tone.

“Here.” Marcus handed her a Gatorade. “Take a drink.”

“I’m fine.” Reggie sniffed, handed him the flashlight, and walked over to the sink. She turned it on and splashed her face, lifting her tee shirt to dry off.

“Did you hurt yourself? How are your hands?”

Reggie held them up. “Hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” Marcus caressed them. “I’ll dig now. Maybe by morning we can get our...”

“No. Don’t dig.”

Marcus shook his head. “Why? You want all the credit for getting us out?” He gave her the candle. “Well, watch how big the pile gets when I get another shot.”

“Marcus...” Reggie said, sadly. “It’s no use. We hit another wall.”

“No.” Marcus slid out. “We were doing so good.”

“We were doing real good.” Reggie swung out her hand. “But it’s another wall.”

“Damn it.” Marcus closed his eyes, and then smiled weakly. “At least we have oxygen.”

“But we’re low on food. We have to find a way out.”

“Yeah, and it won’t be long before they send wrecking crews in here.”

“How long do you think?”

“A few days.”

“Can’t we survive that long?” Reggie asked.

“Yeah, we can. But the wrecking crew won’t be looking for survivors.”

Reggie was speechless.

“The crew digging must’ve made some progress.” Marcus stepped away. “God! If we could just get a break.” Frustrated, Marcus kicked at an empty soup can, sending it rattling across the floor to the stairwell. Marcus turned to Reggie. “I’m sorry I...”

Clink-clank-clink-clunk... SPLASH!

Marcus’ head jerked toward the stairwell, then back to Reggie. “No.”

“Yes.”

Like little kids racing for the ice cream truck, Marcus and Reggie bolted for the collapsed stairwell, nudging each other out of the way for position. They dropped to their knees and saw it: at the bottom of the collapsed stairs, a triangular opening about a foot wide.

“That wasn’t here before,” Marcus said.

“No way. We were both here a million times.”

“It must have opened last night in all that shifting.” Marcus’s eyes scanned the room, then stopped at a piece of concrete. He picked it up and tossed it into the hole. Silence, then another splash. Marcus grabbed Reggie’s cheeks and kissed her. He smiled, peered at the hole, caught his breath and calmed down. “All right. It goes down. But... how can we fit through there?”

“We have to make it bigger.”

“Any suggestions?”

Reggie hesitated, then placed her hand inside the triangle formed by the staircase and felt the hole. “Wait.” She stood up, raced into the room and returned with a large piece of concrete. She handed it to Marcus and repeated her actions, coming back with a second chunk of wall.

“Why do we need more concrete?” Marcus asked.

“It’s heavy. It’s sturdy enough to pound the hell out of the floor, to chisel away at the hole until it gets big enough for us to slip through.”

Marcus stared for a second. “Will it work?”

Reggie shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

“But if the floor’s too weak, it may break through. We could crash down.” Marcus said.

“Yeah but at least we’ll be down there,” Reggie nodded. “So what, we break a bone. At least we’ll be out.”

Chuckling, Marcus adopted Reggie’s attitude, picked up his piece of concrete and started to pound on the floor.