Exodus: Book Two: Last Days Trilogy (7 page)

“Found another,” Reggie called, and then raced through the darkness to the small fire Marcus was building. She handed him a large twig.

“Oh, this one’s good. Thanks.” He began to break it up.

“I was thinking, what I wouldn’t give to have a tree to pee behind. And there it was, just sticking up out of the ground.”

Marcus snickered. “I could think of other things to pray for.”

“I wasn’t praying. I was blaspheming.” Reggie plopped down on the sleeping roll.

“This should do it.” Marcus nodded to the igniting fire. “It’ll burn out quick, but we’ll be sleeping by then.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about starting a forest fire.”

“No, we don’t.” Marcus scooted over next to her. “You cold?”

“No, but I’m tired. You?”

“Tired.”

“How far do you suppose we walked today?”

“Miles.” Marcus answered. “Probably ten, give or take, considering the time we started and when it got dark.”

“More than ten,” Reggie said. “At least eight hours, right? At maybe five miles per hour. I think we walked forty.”

“Forty?” Marcus laughed. “No chance. First of all, no way that dirt blasted out forty miles. No way. Look at the sky. Clear as a bell. No dust clouds. That much dust would have clouded up the sky. And you forget, we stopped for twenty minutes every single hour. No, ten. Twelve or thirteen at the most.”

“Fine, get pissy about it. Toss your scientific knowledge in my face.”

Marcus shifted his head toward Reggie. “How is using common deduction scientific knowledge?”

“It’s algebra. I sucked at algebra. You know that. So you used it.”

“I give up.”

Reggie nudged him. “I’m kidding you.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Look how cute our little fire is.”

“It’s little.”

Reggie gave no reply.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Reggie replied quietly.

“You got quiet.”

“I was thinking.”

“About?” Marcus asked.

“Well, what if this is it?’

“Reg,” Marcus chuckled. “The dirt will end. The destruction didn’t....”

“No. That’s not what I mean,” Reggie continued, “I mean, what if this is what will remain of man’s existence? Bleak. Nothing. Our legacy.”

“That’s pretty deep. Usually you don’t go there... you know, to serious places.”

“I know.” Reggie shrugged. “I usually don’t take things seriously.”

“So don’t start now.”

“What?”

“Don’t start taking things seriously now.”

Reggie looked around. “I have no choice. Devante isn’t God, or Jesus, I’ll grant that,” she said. “But if he is powerful enough to cause this, then isn’t he powerful enough to replicate God’s end?”

“No,” Marcus said resolutely. “And
never
say that to me again. Promise me.”

“Okay, I promise, but...”

“No buts. Only our Creator and demented madmen with a nuclear arsenal are powerful enough to destroy us,” Marcus stated unequivocally. “As for Devante, he is forgetting one thing. I am his creator. So somehow, some way...” Marcus lowered his voice to a whisper. “I feel it. I really feel it, Reg. Somehow, I have the power to destroy him.”

The President, sweating profusely and on the edge of screaming, insisted on relating his nightmare to John, his White House advisor, who had awakened him in the middle of the night. His dream, he said, was monstrous. The advisor tried to butt in with the latest news, but the President wouldn’t hear it; he had to tell him, he said; had to get it off his chest. His wife burned, he said, staring straight ahead, screaming as she was engulfed by flames, eating up her skin in blackened patches. His sixteen-year-old daughter stood by, held in place by unseen hands, her clothes in tatters from sexual assaults. All the while, a mob of onlookers chanted, “Deceivers and non-believers must pay.”

“You can’t imagine how horrific it was, John.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, I believe I can,” John replied. “You see, it’s happening now.”

The North Sea had risen up. Earthquakes were rocking Europe, tumbling cities in the United Kingdom and on the Continent. A tidal wave had risen in the North Atlantic and, just hours before, had buried and washed away London, Amsterdam, and Brussels. The Shetland Islands. All of them gone.

Of course, minds turned to the supposed reckless prophesy of an eccentric man who looked like Christ, a man who had told of such events; who had predicted this tidal wave as he did the destruction of Chicago. He was not wrong, men said.

The President, tears welling in his eyes, turned to his advisor. “He told me what to do to stop it. I have to decide and decide quickly.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper, almost to himself. “If he was right about Europe and Chicago, what next?”

“What, Mr. President? I can’t hear you, I don’t understand.” John moved his head closer, trying to hear.

“Religious persecution in exchange for life. Freedom of belief in exchange for death. Devante’s way or no way,” he said breathlessly, his words not quite audible. “Is there really a choice?

They began to spot trees and rooftops sticking up from the ground, then spotlights appeared in the distance.

“We made it.” Reggie said in relief.

“I never thought we would.”

“I bet we walked at least a hundred miles today.”

“Reg, stop that. And we are about to find out who’s right.”

“Halt!” a deep male voice called out. “Identify yourselves.”

Reggie squinted in the bright floodlight.

“Identify yourselves,” the man repeated.

Reggie grabbed Marcus’ shoulder, whispering, “Remember, you’re a wanted criminal. Let me handle this.”

The soldier challenged them once again to identify themselves.

Reggie called out, “Dina Lewis and Jerry Martin.”

“Oh my God,” Marcus moaned. “Not them.”

“What?” Reggie snickered. “He’s young. He doesn’t know.”

“Do you have any identification?” the private asked. He approached warily. He was young, no older than twenty. And short.

“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.

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.”