The Fall: The Rift Book I

  What did I get us into? he thought.

  Stack folded the map and handed it to his lieutenant, then picked up his walkie-talkie and spoke into it. A static voice on the other end answered. The general nodded, dropped the radio onto his seat, and stood up. His arms were folded and he rolled a toothpick between his lips. To James, he resembled a wax sculpture of the doomed General Custer himself.

  Stack grabbed a megaphone and faced the procession. “Listen up,” he announced, while his finger pointed toward a location off in the distance. “There is a field just over this rise. The Wraiths are gathered at the far end. They’ll most likely expect us to split up and flank them. But that’s not what we’re going to do. We’re moving straight in, folks. We’ll take them out head-on. They’ll never expect it.” At that he lowered the megaphone and covered it. His lieutenant said something that James couldn’t hear. The General laughed and then raised it to his mouth again.

  “All right, people! Move out!”

  James glanced to his left, where his wife sat with her hands in her lap. She tilted her head to him, her eyes overflowing with sadness. She grabbed his wrinkled palm, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. His abdomen twisted in knots and it took all his effort to keep from breaking down. He thought of the disagreement they’d had that morning, during which his insides flushed with anger. “You’re not coming,” he’d said, to which she replied, “I’ve been with you for almost fifty years, Jimmy…if there’s a chance things are going to end today, I want them to end with you by my side.” She was right about that, of course. The truth was he needed her. He always had.

  The convoy plodded along and James looked behind him. The vehicles formed a winding snake that followed the general’s lead, twisting around the unpaved roads like unfastened links in a chain. It amazed him how many people had agreed to this plan. There were upwards of a hundred individuals in this thrown-together militia. Most of them were civilians who, like he and Sandra, were neither mentally nor physically equipped to handle what lay ahead of them. There were husband and wife teams like Bob and Tessa Simpson; pimple-faced, high school teenagers like Walter Scott and Debbie Landry; single women with no family to latch onto like Molly St. Clair; even Charlie Moore, the kid who delivered the newspaper to the Conroy doorstep every morning for the past three years, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, had made the trek. Every face he scanned appeared awfully worried.

  As well they should be, he thought. James Conroy felt very, very foolish.

  The fleet came to a halt at the edge of a field. The General waved and people began to jump from the vehicles. While everyone else walked, Stack pulled ahead in his jeep, flanked by the lone tank in their arsenal. They bounced across the hardened, roiling soil. The soldiers rounded up the civilians, formed them in three ragged lines, and ordered them to follow. James did as he was told like the good soldier he’d always been, walking with one hand wrapped around Sandra’s waist. Her eyes stared straight ahead, and James admired his wife’s courage in a moment when he himself thought about running away. The chilly air of southern Maine in autumn blew past and made him shiver. The heavy bomber jacket on his back and wool scarf wrapped around his neck did little to fend off the cold.

  Step by painful step, they traipsed over the packed-down, frozen mud. James watched the Jeep bounce alongside its big-brother-with-a-cannon, and he noticed how easily the smaller vehicle maneuvered through the uneven landscape. A picture of his Volvo, the pride of his adulthood, entered his mind. He’d owned that car for twenty-seven years, and it had treated him well. The only trips to the shop it ever made were for oil changes and brake jobs. He felt a stab of sorrow, for the car was part of a past life now. He would never see its off-white glory again. There would be no more leisurely drives after mass on Sunday mornings, no more waiting for the heat to kick in on cold winter days, and no more reclining in those bucket seats after work with a book in his lap. No, that automobile was now part of Josh’s future. Hopefully the kid was heading full-steam toward a better life, a life that was away from them, a life that was safe…if that was even possible anymore.

  James truly did love the boy. Never in his adult life—neither in the military nor the old machine shop where he worked after that—had he felt comfortable enough with a co-worker to dub them a friend. Then came this Benoit kid, a lad forty years his junior who brimmed with kindness, and filled that void.

  In many ways Josh reminded him of his own two boys. They were around the same age, worked just as hard, and carried with them a sense of honor that had become virtually unheard of in the ripening “me” generation. Josh, however, possessed something his sons did not. While Jack and Mark were dedicated to their jobs and families the same as he, they weren’t the brightest of men, whereas Josh radiated intelligence. It burst out of him at odd intervals, in the form of arbitrary rants, as if there were goings on in his brain that were so profound yet so subtle that it threatened to suffocate him if he couldn’t find the proper release. It killed James to think of the boy wallowing away in that dead-end job. Nobody could convince him that his friend wasn’t destined for greatness, and he thanked the heavens that Josh had decided to be elsewhere. If anyone could survive this mess, it was him.

  James shook his head, squeezed Sandra’s hand, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. They passed a broken-down barn and marched up the steep hill that lay behind it. Once they reached the top of the rise, the countryside spread out before them like a patchwork quilt. It was a vast meadow of brown and yellow grasses and broken stalks of corn. A blockade of evergreens surrounded it on all sides.

  James tilted his head and listened for signs of life. All he could hear were the roar of the two motors and the steady thump of marching feet.

  The General’s Jeep came to a halt. The tank did the same. Stack stood up on the passenger seat and lifted his binoculars. There seemed to be a look of confusion on his face. James squinted and tried to see if he could find out what caused it.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Sandra.

  James waved her away. “Not now, dear.”

  A low hum came to his ears. He saw the General talk to his lieutenant and decided he would have his say. He urged Sandra to stay put and approached the Jeep.

  At the rear of the Jeep he stopped and placed one hand on its cold metal frame. The hum grew louder, like the distant whine of an old steam-powered locomotive, swelling with each passing second. It was a familiar sound, and then he realized its cause. He wasn’t hearing a singular sound, but a series of continuous clicks—hundreds of weapons being loaded simultaneously. His eyes bulged and his heart raced. He glanced up at the General, who still stood with the binoculars pressed to his brow and that mystified look on his ugly mug. The only words James could think of were, “This guy’s a fucking idiot!”

  He backed away from the Jeep, slowly at first, and then he broke into a full gallop. “Go!” he screamed as he made a beeline for Sandra. “Everyone get out! Now! It’s a trap!”

  “Get back here!” he heard Stack shout. “Everyone stay their ground!”

  A pair of soldiers attacked James from both sides, grabbing him under the arms and spinning him around. He struggled, but their youth and strength were too much for him. He relented, allowed their fingers to press into his biceps until it hurt, and put on his best air of defiance.

  “I’ll have you brought up on charges!” Stack roared, his face beet-red. “Do you hear me, man? I should shoot you where you stand.”

  “You…don’t…get it,” replied James between gasps. “That sound…it’s…it’s…”

  He never got the chance to finish that statement.

  A high-pitched screech sounded, followed by a flash of brilliant yellow as the Jeep upon which the General stood exploded. Stack himself went shooting straight into the sky, his flailing body engulfed in flames.

  James’s head snapped back. He had been standing too close to the explosion and its force sent him flying. He careened through sp
ace for what felt like an eternity and landed square on his back. His vision became hazy. He tried to breathe, but all he could do was wheeze.

  A myriad of gunfire followed. James tried to kick his body backward, but he couldn’t feel his legs. With a great, straining effort, he managed to turn his head. A few feet away, he spotted Sandra. She was on her side with her back to him. A large, jagged shard of metal protruded from her ear.

  He wanted to scream, no, this isn’t fair, don’t take her away from me! but his body wouldn’t cooperate with his brain’s torment. Instead he moaned and forced his neck to turn his head in the other direction. There he saw Frankie Jenkins, a nice boy who worked at the supermarket. He was crouching behind the body of a fallen man. Bullets peppered the corpse’s hide, the dirt before him alive with red mist.

  Frankie caught a slug in the side, followed by one in the neck. He fell to the ground and writhed. Blood churned from his wounds like water from a hose. James closed his eyes. He wanted to scream but knew nothing would come out.

  Other sounds joined the uproar, the rhythmic clunking of a howling stampede. It echoed all around him. Panic set in. All he wanted to do was get up but he could only move his hand.

  He ran his palm down his side. A tangle of moist tissue greeted his fingers just below his pelvis where his legs should have been. He began to shake and his brain thumped from a lack of oxygen. Then, when it seemed he would implode, calmness swept over him.

  He stared into the blackness and prayed. He prayed in silent reverie that the world might be cleansed of this madness. He prayed that he might meet Sandra on the other side of oblivion. He prayed for the women and children they’d left behind.

  It was mankind in general he prayed for most of all. His mind repeated a constant idiom, over and over again, until his consciousness renounced him:

  Please forgive us, God. I’m sorry we’ve disappointed you.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE LONG RUN

  STACY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the floor and rocked Little Roger. The child fussed and flailed his legs while she tried to force the nipple of a bottle between his lips. The juice inside was cold and Little Roger wanted no part of it.

  It appeared Stacy was ready to toss the infant across the room. “What’s wrong with you?” she cried.

  Kyra put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You want me to help?” she asked.

  “No,” bawled Stacy. “I want him to stop fucking crying!”

  “Well…” Kyra began before shutting her mouth. I don’t know the first thing about kids, she thought. What kind of help would I really be?

  “Can I lend a hand?” another voice asked. Kyra turned and saw Jessica Lure, a thin woman in her early twenties, standing behind her. She held her own son, Zachary, in her arms. A concerned smile appeared on Jessica’s face while her boy played with the frayed ends of her long brown hair.

  Kyra stood up, noticing that most every pair of eyes in the room, both adults and children alike, were fixed on them. She shivered, feeling claustrophobic as the spacious interior of the church seemed to shrink.

  “Go ahead,” she told Jessica. “He’s been going on like this for hours.”

  “I know,” Jessica replied. “I could hear him.”

  Stacy lifted her eyes to the young woman who stood before her and started crying even harder.

  Jessica placed Zachary on the ground. “Stay here, honey, okay?” she said. Zachary nodded, giggled, and plopped down on his pampered rear. He turned his attention to the one-legged G.I. Joe action figure he held in his chubby fingers. Jessica’s head tilted as she watched him, as if hypnotized by the simplicity of his joy. With a shrug of her shoulders she turned around and held out her hands.

  “Can I have him?” she asked.

  Stacy handed over the wailing baby without any further prodding. Jessica pressed Little Roger’s body into her chest and walked around in circles. “Hush little baby, don’t you cry,” she sang. He stopped shrieking almost immediately.

  Kyra felt jealousy creep in. I could’ve done that, she thought.

  With Jessica caring for Little Roger and Zachary fully entrenched in slobbering over the head of his action figure, Kyra drew close to her friend and offered some comfort. Stacy’s nose was still running and her cheeks were flushed, but she’d stopped crying, at least.

  “You want to take a walk?” asked Kyra.

  Stacy frowned. “Can we go someplace other than here?”

  “Of course.” Kyra glanced at Jessica. The young mother, who now bounced while the baby clucked joyously in her arms, gave her a thumbs-up. Kyra helped Stacy to her feet and together they walked to the back door.

  A blast of frigid air welcomed them to the rear walkway. The two friends strolled side-by-side, tracing the building’s rocky foundation. For quite a while, neither uttered so much as a word.

  “I miss him already,” Stacy said at last.

  “I know, honey.”

  “Do you think they’ll be back soon?”

  Don’t hold your breath, Kyra was about to say, but decided on, “Yeah, pretty soon,” instead.

  “I know it’s only been two days, but…”

  Kyra draped her arm around Stacy’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I am, too.”

  Tears welled up in Stacy’s eyes once more. “I want him back. I heard gunshots this morning. They were far away. At least I think they were far away. I’m…I’m scared they…”

  “I know, honey. I know.”

  She wrapped her friend in a loving embrace. Stacy shook as if she’d spent the last few hours locked inside a freezer. Her friend’s reaction scared Kyra more than she cared to admit. She had a feeling the militia would never be coming home and didn’t want to think about how Stacy would react if that feeling were to be proven true.

  “Give them another day or so,” she conceded. “They’ll be home eventually, and then everything will be back to normal. You’ll see.”

  Stacy cracked a smile. To Kyra, no lie had ever felt so satisfying.

  * * *

  “Do you have any…fives?” asked Andy Carlson.

  Josh grinned. “Go fish.”

  “You’re gonna lose,” laughed Francis Simone.

  “Shut up,” said Andy, “or I’ll punch you.”

  “Alright guys, simmer down,” said Josh. He chuckled and put his hands up in surrender. “We’re gonna have fun, okay? Let’s not get physical. Trust me, it never turns out good.”

  “Okay, Mister Benoit,” the two boys responded in unison.

  Josh watched as the kids eyed their cards with squinty-eyed intensity. A boisterous pair of nine-year-olds, Andy and Francis had been classmates at Dover Elementary School. “We’re best friends for life,” Andy had told him earlier, before putting Francis into a headlock and wrestling him to the ground. Josh bonded with the both of them right away. They reminded him of the way he and Colin had been at that age—needy for a youthful connection, yet constantly at each others’ throats. A simple glance was enough to elicit either a fit of laughter or flying punches. A cramped ache of sadness twisted in his throat.

  Francis picked up a card from those scattered on the floor and considered it with a comically dismayed expression before stuffing it into his hand. The boy glanced up at Josh and grinned.

  “Got nothing?” asked Josh.

  “Nope.”

  Andy mocked his friend with a song. “You’re gonna lose, you’re gonna lose!”

  It was Francis’s turn to act defensive. “You’re a jerk,” he said, “and your momma’s ugly.”

  The door opened and Kyra poked her head in. “What’s going on in here?” she asked.

  “Go fish,” replied Andy.

  Josh nodded. “Yup. I’m getting spanked by the two masters here. They’re kicking my ass.”

  “Nuh-uh,” said Francis, his mouth screwing into a confused grimace. “You’re winning.”

  Josh rustled the boy’s curly brown hair. “I know, bud. Just having fun.”

  “Y
ou got room for one more?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Josh shuffled over and Kyra sat down beside him. He peeked at her breasts, though in a way he thought wouldn’t be too obvious. It had been two days since they’d first made love, and ever since that night he couldn’t get enough of her company. That sense of strangeness, of inevitability, returned. Even with the end of the world going on outside, all he could think about was the way she smiled, the rise of her chest when she laughed, and the way she would drape her gorgeous red hair over one eye when she wanted to appear serious. There was a comforting wantonness in her companionship, and she allowed him to use her body to stave off the bouts of sorrow that threatened to swallow him. He needed her, and he sensed that the feeling was mutual.

  Her eyes flashed in his direction and she stuck out her tongue to let him know that she knew he was watching her. He smiled.

  “So, what’s going on?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. You don’t have to be specific, but at least give me the courtesy of an acknowledgment.”

  He bowed his head. “Fine. Something’s wrong.”

  “What is it?”

  His brow furrowed. “You said…” he began, and then he noticed her playful grin and laughed.

  “Gotcha.”

  Andy placed his card on the ground. “I gotta pee, Mr. Benoit. That okay?”

  “Of course, kiddo,” he replied. Using the nickname James Conroy often employed to address him made his inner gloom swell.

  “Hold up, Andy,” said Francis. He followed his friend out the door. “I gotta go, too!”

  With the kids now departed, Josh sighed and rubbed his temples.

  “Josh,” said Kyra, “there’s something we have to talk about.”

  He groaned. “What is it?”

  “I just got back from taking a walk with Stacy. Things aren’t going so well here. Everyone’s on edge. No one knows what to do next.”

  “And?”

  “What are we going to do?”