Going Underground
Southwest of Washington D.C. after the destruction of the Earth.
1 ADI
Teachers. That's what they call themselves. They visit our small group of survivors in a camp that will one day grow into a city called Grace Falls. That is what they told us. Like Noah and his family, we are rebuilding. The angels add one or two to our number each month—survivors who have passed through the wrath of God, like me. We are not encouraged to think about those who were lost or about the many sins that led to our destruction. We are told to dwell on the wonderful flow of life-giving power that comes from God who sits on his throne in Jerusalem—so the teacher's question seems strange to me.
"I don't understand," I say, spooning more vegetables into the cast iron pot over the campfire. "Why do you want to hear my story?"
"Because you need to tell it," she says.
"All of it? Even the dark parts?"
"I'm not asking you to share all the details. I'd just like to hear about your journey to reclamation."
That's what they call it now. Reclamation. It is the internal process of breaking down what hurts us and turning the broken pieces into something new. Something better. I leave the wooden spoon in the cooking pot and return to the log I carved into a chair with tools I made with my own hands. That is the way of it now. The teachers tell us that hard work isn't work if it isn’t meaningful. They're right. They're right about everything, and it is easy to do as they say. If she wants me to tell my story, then that’s what I'll do. I sit and place my hands on my knees. "Okay," I say, "but it is a hard story to tell because it doesn't happen all at once."
She sits down across from me on a seat carved by a friend. "Tell it however you'd like," she says, expression placid.
"I guess I can start from the beginning."
"That's a good place to start," she says.
"It began on the day we were told that China was poised to launch three missiles at the United States. We were afraid D.C. was one of their targets. And since we lived about forty-five minutes outside of the city, as you know, that was too close for our comfort." My mind returns to that horrible day—the day we went underground.
"Honey, you need to come right now." My mother's voice over the phone is clear and desperate, demanding my attention, but I am unable to give it. I stare at the television with dread.
"It's been dark as night all day," says the reporter on location in Israel. "The smoke from the fires intensified in the early hours." Flashes of video clips show troops, explosions, fires, and dark daytime skies with no sun visible. These are followed by shots of the night sky and the moon blood red through the smoke. The reporter appears again. "As the war here intensifies, some officials believe China will back down, others say a nuclear strike is imminent."
A graphic appears, displaying the potential trajectories of three nuclear-armed missiles with D.C. as one of the targets.
"Honey, are you listening?" My mother's voice has an edge.
"Yes, mom. I get it, I'm coming, I'll be there in a sec."
"Are you watching the news?"
"Yeah."
"Turn it off and come. Right now."
"I will," I snap at her, but I quickly alter my tone. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm just trying to get more information before I come. Will you leave the door to the shelter open?"
The silence is deafening.
"Mom? Mom, are you there?"
"If you don't come right now, it won't matter. I have to go, I have to call your sister." The phone goes dead.
My friend, Jack, looks up from the television. "Uh oh. That’s not a good face. Is it go time?"
"Yeah," I say, letting out an exhausted breath. "My mom wants me to come right now."
Jack stands. "I was ready an hour ago."
"Alright, then," I say, heading toward the kitchen. "You get the backpacks, I'll grab the last of the food."
"You got it!" he says, leaving the living room and bolting up the stairs.
I listen to his pounding footsteps on the upstairs floor as I turn the dial to the safe that sits on the counter next to the stove. The safe is mostly for show. I've had it raided three times now. I'm always quick to give up the combination to those willing to take my life for what's inside. But, it has thwarted a few who lacked the resolve to kill me for the chance of finding a meal. The safe door squeaks open, and I pull out four plastic grocery bags, three filled with beans and one with rice.
Jack's feet pound on the stairs as he comes back down. "Here," he says, throwing my backpack. I stick the bagged food inside, zip it, and head for the door. He follows. My parents live close, but not close by road. The way these neighborhoods are set up, we’d have to drive twelve minutes to get to them, even though they're only five minutes by foot. But, even if it wasn't faster by foot, we would do it anyway. My car sits in the driveway with an empty tank. Gas is just too expensive.
We use the footpath that separates their neighborhood from ours and emerge on the other side of the woods, climb the bank, and follow the road to my parents' house. It sits at the end of a long driveway off the point where the road bends. I've always loved this location. It is in the middle of the city, yet its unique placement offers forested seclusion. We pass by my sister's moped in the driveway and head up the stairs onto the porch where I pound on the front door, using the special knock we agreed on.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK… KNOCK, KNOCK… KNOCK.
Locks click on the other side, the door swings open, and my sister, Rosie, appears in the doorway. Tall, slender, black hair, friendly face. She greets me with her signature smile, lifted on one side by the tightening of her cheek. It is a playful smile, but it doesn't last long. She looks past me. "You brought Jack?"
"Yeah. I couldn't just leave him."
She glares.
"Is there something I should know about you two?"
Her eyes flick to me. "It's nothing," she says. Her head slants. "It was always nothing." She turns and walks away, through the living room towards the sliding glass doors.
"Ouch,” I say to Jack, “that's cold."
He smiles, confidence unshaken. "That about sums it up. But, like your big sister said, it was nothing." He chuckles. "I'd say she was quite clear on that point."
When Rosie reaches the glass doors, she slides the door open and looks back. "Dad's not going to like this," she says. "You know that, right?" Behind her, the yard looks dark. It shouldn't be dark.
Rosie sees me staring and looks out. "What on earth?" she says, stepping onto the back deck. "That cloud bank came in fast."
Jack and I join her outside. The clouds are thick and dark like smoke. There are fires to the northeast, above D.C., but not enough to cause dark, billowing smoke like this. And how did it move so quickly? I turn and look back over the roofline of the house. The clouds form a dark line across the sky. It is bright as day the way we came.
Jack's face is hard as stone. "Do you think the missile hit?"
"I don't think so, man. Wouldn't there be ash falling?"
Rosie doesn't spend any time dwelling on it. She heads down the long wooden stairs off the porch and across the lawn towards the tree line at the back of the property.
Jack continues to scan the clouds. "Okay. So, what do you make of this?"
"They're probably just storm clouds," I say.
"I've never seen clouds that thick, bro. And where's the thunder?"
"It doesn't matter. We need to get to the shelter. Whatever it is, it's bad."
We chase after Rosie who is already at the utility shed which is just inside the woods. My mom is there, standing in the doorway. When we get near, Rosie says, "Ben brought a friend," just loud enough for us to hear, then she goes inside. We come to a stop in front of my mom and her folded arms.
"Can I talk with, Dad?" I ask.
"You promised you wouldn't tell anyone. This is no small matter, Ben." She looks past me. "Sorry, Jack. No offense."
"He's my roommate, mom. I tried to hide it from him, but he kept asking me where the food was coming from."
Her eyes scan us and then look up to consider the sky. After an awkward silence, she says, "Wait here. I'll get your father." As we wait, thunder rumbles in the distance and the ground vibrates in response.
Jack looks up.
"See. Storm clouds," I say.
"Yup," he says. "And clouds like that bring tornados. I'm glad we're going below ground." After the rumble subsides, he leans in. "How sure are you that your Dad won't kill me and hide the body?"
He is only half joking.
"He's not like the other preppers. He doesn't even own a gun. At worst, he'll send you away with some food and ask you to keep our secret. But I don't even…"
The noise of my Dad climbing up the ladder forces me to stop. My eyes are drawn to the open hatch and the lid that, when set down, will look like trash in an old wooden box on the floor. His shiny bald head pops up first, then the rest of him emerges. He comes to the door, scans the sky, scans the yard, then he considers us, standing in front of his shed. He looks like he wants to tell us both to go away, but I sense a hint of futility in his expression. Or maybe I'm projecting it onto him. Either way, he doesn't really have a choice. He can't tell us to leave and risk someone finding out about the shelter. Plus, I'm his son.
"Come in here," he says sternly, moving to the side.
We quickly shuffle in, and he slides the door closed behind us and backs us up against wire shelving filled with useless junk. The aesthetic of the shed is meant to convey the message: There is nothing of interest here, move along. It does a good job of that. The shelves look picked clean. All that is left is obvious trash.
His narrowly slitted eyes, thick glasses, and male-pattern baldness in the stark shadow cast by the one dangling incandescent light make my father look like a zombie. "I don't think I have to tell you boys what this means for all of us," he says. "We've been living off that food down there, and we have barely enough for four. An extra mouth to feed means we may not make it through this."
"Dad, you know we're gonna have to come out when the food runs out—and it's gonna run out. It's good to have someone like Jack with us. He was a marine. He's seen combat."
"Marine, huh?" my Dad says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a thick finger.
"Yeah," says Jack.
"Thank you for your service, young man."
"Um, thank you, sir."
Dad steps back, revealing the dimly glowing entrance to the shelter. "I guess we're in this together."
…Is that it? Is that all he needed to change his mind about Jack? I don't care. I'll take it. Prompted by my Dad, Jack goes down the ladder first. Then, I go down, followed by Dad. He closes the hatch.
KA-CHUNK!
When Dad reaches the bottom of the ladder, he says, "I'm gonna go check on your mom," and heads into the bathroom, which also acts as a laundry room.
I look around at this first section of the shelter. Every wall is covered with shelves, and all of the shelves are filled with sealed plastic buckets of food and other necessary supplies. It is a comfort to know that we're not going to have to worry about staying fed—at least, not for a while. I walk around the ladder and head into the living quarters. Rosie has claimed the bottom bunk on the left side of the cramped and poorly lit space.
Jack is checking out the kitchen on the other side of the room, beyond the small table that sits in the center between the bunks that line both walls. "You have running water?" he says. "That's impressive. Where does it come from?" He turns the faucet on and off and lets the water squirt out a few times.
"Well water, I think." I turn back and holler toward the bathroom. "Hey, Dad, that's well water, right? Is it filtered?"
No response.
"Dad?" There is only a thin metal wall between us; he should be able to hear me. I walk toward the bathroom. "Dad? Mom?" As I step into the small bathroom, I expect to run into them, but they're not there. All I find is a stack of toilet paper rolls waiting to be put away, towels piled on the floor of the shower, and laundry on the floor near the washing machine.
Okay. This is weird.
I back up until I reach the ladder, then turn and look up at the hatch. There is no way they could have snuck behind me, climbed the ladder, and left without making a noise. I would have noticed. It doesn't make any sense. I go back into the living quarters. Rosie immediately notices the distress on my face. "You okay, Ben?"
"Ah- Yeah. I'm just wondering where Mom and Dad went."
"Did you check the bathroom?"
"It's not a big place, Rosie."
Her lips make that bow again with one end lifted. She clearly recognizes the irony of her question.
"They're not there," I say, "and there's no way they could have left without me hearing them."
She rolls out of her bunk. "Are you being serious right now?"
"Yeah. Dead serious. This is really strange."
"Maybe Dad made a secret hiding place," she says, her eyes lighting up.
"You think?"
"I wouldn't put it past him. Maybe they're hiding in it now, testing it out."
"It's possible. That sounds like something Dad would do."
We go out into the food storage room together and start pounding on the walls. "Dad? Dad?!"
Rosie goes into the bathroom and pounds on the walls in there. "Dad? Mom?"
Jack comes up next to me, "You have a strange family, bro. Not gonna lie."
I laugh. "You're not the first to notice."
We search every crack and crevice for a secret panel, pounding and thumping as we go, then Rosie comes out of the bathroom and we all stand around the ladder that goes to the surface. "Okay!" I call out one last time. "We get it, Dad. There is no way anyone is going to find us in your secret hiding place. Can you guys come out now?"
Still no response.
Rosie's face looks as creepy as Dad's was in the utility shed. "They're not here, Ben. They must have gone back up."
"That's not possible."
Jack starts up the ladder. "Well," he says, grunting as he climbs, "we should at least check." He grabs the locking mechanism and opens the hatch.
KA-CHUNK
I look at Rosie, "Do you think we would have missed that sound? And how did they lock the hatch if they were on the outside?"
Fear and confusion are in her eyes, and she looks like she's seen a ghost.
"What?" I ask, studying her face and fighting a feeling that is as haunted as her expression. She pushes past me and rushes into the living quarters. "What is it, Rosie?" Her hands plunge into her backpack and search it with intensity. I crouch by the bunk bed as she pulls a book out. It is brown with gold letters on the cover.
"Is that a Bible?"
"Yeah. Mom gave it to me this morning when I stopped in for breakfast. She said something cryptic, like, 'If you look for us and can't find us, you'll find the answers in here.' Maybe there's a note or something.” She rifles through the pages and shakes it, but nothing comes out—there's no note. She closes the book and sets it in her lap.
I sit next to her. "What about the covers? Mom likes to write on the inside covers."
She checks. There is nothing in front, but every inch of the inside back cover is filled with pen scribblings in my mother's handwriting.
"What's it say?"
Rosie clears her throat. "'On the day the authorities brought the Williamson family out into their front yard, pulled their children out of their desperate hands, and carried them all away right in front of us, we knew we had to hide that we were like them, that we were believers. We had to stop openly sharing with you what we were learning from this book. We were afraid for you—that you would tell someone that we were Christians and that they would take you from us before we could bring you into the saving knowledge of the truth. If you're reading this, our plans to teach you in the shelter have failed, God has called us up to be with Him, and despite our prayers and our attempts to cryptically share truth with you over the last two years, you were left. But, don't fear. Be strong. Trust in the Savior. Read the verses I have highlighted. God may yet seal you and protect you as you seek to work out your salvation with fear and trembling.’"
The book falls into her lap and her jaw slackens.
I remember the day the Williamson family was taken. I knew their kids. I was about sixteen at the time, the same as their oldest. Rosie was seventeen. Mom and Dad hid our Bible and told us to avoid talking about what they had shared. “Believe it, but don't speak it,” was their message.
KA-CHUNK!
"Jack's back."
The bow of my sister's lips drops on both sides. "He's not going to like this," she says. "That's one of the reasons things didn't work out with us. I wanted to learn about this book. Mom and Dad made me curious." She stuffs the book into her bag. "We need to keep this quiet."
I stand as Jack comes in.
"What's up with you two?"
"What do you mean?" I say, fidgeting slightly.
"Why didn't you come up and look with me?"
"We—looked in here."
His eyes scan the walls. "Find anything?"
"No. Nothing."
"That's some strange stuff, Ben. Where’d they go?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, man."
"Okay. So what now? Do we just, settle in?"
"What else can we do?"
He looks around and finds his backpack on the floor. With a strong hand, he lifts it and tosses it up onto the top bunk on the right wall. "I guess I'm on top."
"Yeah," I say, shrinking down into one of the kitchen chairs. "That's cool with me."
"You know," he says, "just until your parents come back."
Darkness fills my heart. We're all alone. They're not coming back. It's just me and Rosie, both wanting to dig into that book and see what my mother highlighted, both concerned about how Jack will react. Rosie didn't have to tell me his feelings about Christians. Up to a few minutes ago, we were on the same page—but now I don’t know what to believe. What if the things our parents told us were true?
A loud, THUMP, makes everything rattle; we look at each other with rounded eyes. Rosie says, "Was that a…" Rosie grabs her phone from her pocket.
Jack does the same.
THUMP! THUMP!
He looks at the screen with wild eyes.
THUMP!
Jack's face contorts.
"You alright, man?"
He crouches and starts breathing short breaths.
"What is it? Jack?"
The lights in the shelter go out, leaving only the light of Jack’s phone illuminating the room. Jack squints and shakes his head, then looks at the screen again with wild eyes.
"What is it, man? Bombs?" I crouch by him, and he flinches away. The phone displays his home screen, he hasn't even brought up the news app. Then it dawns on me. He's not responding to what he's seeing, it's the noise of the impacts outside that are disturbing him. Horror fills my chest. I've seen this before. Loud noises. They trigger him. I didn't think it was a big thing. I thought he had it under control. I was wrong. I never should have brought him. What was I thinking?
Clearly, I wasn't.
THUMP! THUMP!
A quake shakes the room and Jack drops his phone. It strikes the floor, bounces once, and scrapes across the concrete on its face. Through the dim, dust-filled air, lit only by Rosie’s phone, I watch as Jack attempts to hold himself together.
Is he going to lose it?
Low tremors rumble in the ground around us but there are no more impacts. Jack is still on edge, so we watch him pensively, hoping he doesn't explode. The tremors are a consistent sound. I think it was the hollow thumps from the impacts that were stirring him up. Rosie and I cower in the darkness and watch him for a long time—until the tremors cease and everything becomes quiet. We sit in the near darkness, fear hangs in the air like a suffocating cloud.
"We're safe in here, Jack.” Rosie's voice breaks the silence. “Dad said this shelter is shielded, and we didn't get a direct impact. We'll be okay. This is why we came down here. We have everything we need to wait this out."
I pull myself out of the memory with a residual image of Jack, shrouded in darkness, sitting on the floor, forearms on his knees, head hung. I feel as emotionally exhausted now as he looked then. Every part of me feels numb.
The teacher's voice is gentle. "Are you okay?"
"I just need a moment."
"Would you like a drink of water or tea?"
"No. I'm fine."
She sits quietly, studying me—not in a bad way. There is kindness in her eyes and eyebrows. That's how the teachers are. They watch. They listen. But, most of all, they seek to guide us with kindness. Without a word, she encourages me to continue. She makes me want to tell my story. But I don't know what to share next. I should probably explain the tension surrounding the Bible. The teacher had asked about my journey to reclamation. That happened because of what we read in that book. Rosie was the first to receive its message of grace and reconciliation.
I clear my throat. "After the impacts, Jack struggled. He'd wake up in cold sweats, but he wouldn't tell us about his nightmares. During our waking time, we walked on eggshells, careful to not come up behind him and startle him. We'd start games and he'd lose interest. But, mostly, he was irritable."
I slip into my memories again and find the pieces to continue my story.
Jack’s trying to make the radio work again.
"It's not the radio," I say from my bunk. "It's the antennae above ground. It's damaged."
He glares at me.
"I wish my Dad had installed a Geiger counter. There’s no way to tell if it’s radioactive up there, or I'd go up and check on the stupid thing."
"This thing has an antenna," he says, lifting it slightly and slamming it back down on the table, rattling the dishes."
"Yeah, but it can't get a signal down here."
"It's stupid," he says, sliding his chair back and standing. "Whatever." He leaves the radio and turns toward the kitchen on the back wall. "I'm going to make some lunch. You want some?"
"Sure. Sounds good. I'm going to hit the head first. Alright?" I roll out of my bunk and head for the bathroom. As I step into the storage room, my sister makes a quick movement to hide something.
I speak in a low voice. "If he catches you reading that thing, it's going to make him even more irritable."
Her face is sheepish. "You know I don't want that, but you have to read what's in here. It's some scary stuff, Ben."
"Then why read it? Not enough scary stuff going on here?"
Her mouth does that thing again, curling up on one side. "There are good things too, Ben. Bible prophecies aren't all about doom and gloom. It says there's something beautiful on the other side of all this."
"So…” Jack's voice interrupts our low conversation. “That's why you've been hanging out in here." He steps into the room.
My heart jumps in my chest.
"I'm not looking for a fight, Jack,” Rosie says, putting the Bible behind her. “I know how you feel about this book. But there is no reason why I can't read it down here. No one's going to come and drag us off."
He shrugs. "Read what you want. I just don't like you sneaking around." With that, he heads back into the living quarters.
Really? All this time that she's been sneaking around, he's been fine with it?
I look at Rosie. "He's not fine with it."
"Not even a little bit," she says.
We're right. Over the next few days, Rosie tests his resolve. She brings the book out and reads it on her bunk. Each time, he offers a few choice words. As he starts to escalate, she stops reading it for a while. But she can't help herself. Not only does she devour every page, but she shares passages with me. I'm quick to shut her down to keep the peace, but it isn't enough. It is clear that Rosie's interest in the book is systematically dismantling the tenuous peace in our cramped little home.
"You need to put it away, Rosie."
She closes it and gives me an expression of apology.
"I don't mean for a few days. I mean for good. Find something else to read."
"You know I can't do that."
Jack comes in from the storage room. There is an awkward silence as he considers each of us. I can't even imagine what is going on in his head, and it doesn't help that he won't open up to me.
Rosie sticks the book in her backpack."I'll put it away, Jack. I'm sorry." She barely gets the words out before the room is filled with noise. The ground shakes violently, wall hangings fall, dishes crash in the sink, and the lights go off.
"Another attack?!"
The only sound besides the rumble of the earth is Jack's fevered panting.
I stop my story again and look at the teacher. "Can I take a break?"
She is clearly disappointed, but patience warms the expression of disappointment. "Yes, of course you can."
I get up from my wooden chair and check on the soup. "Thank you. It's all a bit overwhelming."
"You don't have to apologize. And you don't have to continue if you don't want to."
"No. I do. I do want to. I just need a moment." I use the ladle to put some soup into my bowl. I blow on it and take a sip. Not quite ready yet. Shame. I was hoping for an excuse to take a longer pause. I look around at the camp. A few people have stopped to listen to my story. It wouldn't be right to leave them hanging. It would also be nice to get it over with. "I suppose we should continue," I say, walking back and taking my seat.
"You don't need more time?" she says.
"No. I'm good, I guess." I run my hand down my long beard and squeeze, searching through the fog of my memories once more. "After the long earthquake, and after our struggle to get the power back on, Jack was different. He was no longer combative, but that wasn’t a good thing. He spent most of his time on his bunk, deathly quiet. When he did get up, he'd sit near my sister and ask her what she was learning. He had stopped spitting venom about the Bible, that fire had gone out. But it wasn't the only fire that had gone out. He seemed to have lost his ability to feel anything, and he started to fixate on my sister. I think maybe she was a lifeline. She was his only way to feel something, but she didn't understand that. Neither of us did."
I find the next scene from my memories.
The bunk creaks as Jack rolls out. He heads toward the bathroom. When he returns, he sits next to Rosie, as is his routine now. I’m sitting on a kitchen chair at the end of my bunk on the other side of the small living quarters, reading a magazine. When I look up, I notice Jack brush his hand against hers. She jerks it away but says nothing. His eyes are vacant. The impacts and the earthquakes have really messed him up. He seems dead inside. I read a little more and look up again to see him brush his hand against hers again.
"Jack," she says. "Stop it, please. I've asked you not to do that."
He continues to stare at the table. It doesn't take long before his hand slides toward hers again. Her chair squeaks and she climbs out of it and into her bunk. He looks like he doesn’t even realize she's gone. I'd say the lights are on and nobody's home, but I don't even think the lights are on.
Jack slides his chair back and stands. He pulls Rosie's chair out of the way and hovers over the bottom bunk where Rosie is lying.
"Jack," I growl.
He looks at me, but his eyes aren't locked on.
I stand, "Jack. Why don't you come with me? Let's talk, man."
He sits on the bunk, a hollow husk, eyes dim.
Rosie's voice has an edge to it. "Jack, go with Ben. He probably has something important he wants to talk to you about. Don't you, Ben?"
I lighten my tone. "Yeah. Come on, man. Let's chat in the other room. It's nothing big. I just want to tell you something."
Rosie's voice softens as well. "Why don't you go find out what Ben wants. I'll be here when you get back."
Jack sits, quietly breathing, eyes staring. For a long time, he doesn't move, and we wait for his response. When he does move, it is to turn and put his hands on her.
Rosie screams, "Jack! No!"
I move quickly and reach out to grab his shirt and pull him off her. His right arm moves like lightning, knocking my hands downward. As I lurch forward, he catches my chest and launches me backward. I lose my footing and smack my head on the metal frame of the bunk behind me before I fall to the concrete floor. Pain travels through my bones.
Rosie’s bunk squeaks as she screams and kicks. "Jack! Stop it! Stop it!"
I stand on unstable legs, the pain in my head blurring my vision. Adrenaline drives me forward and I grab Jack. He turns and grips my shirt as I grip his. As he stands, he pushes me backward again. I stay on my feet this time but I am unable to stop him. He's too strong. My feet slide as he drives me into the metal frame holding the top bunk behind me; my head hits it and an intense pain spikes down through my spine. The last thing I hear is a loud crack before everything goes black.
My eyes flick open and I expect to see Jack on top of me, or the plywood support for the top bunk. Instead, I see the ladder that leads up to the hatch. I also expect to feel pain, but there isn’t any. What I feel is the cold, hard concrete of the floor pressed into my back. I also feel someone lying next to me. I roll—and look into the lifeless eyes of my sister. My heart jumps as I slide back and stare at her. She is on her side, expression neutral, eyes fixed, body motionless.
Why is she so still?
I find my voice and one word squeaks out. "No."
As I slide over and put my fingers on her wrist, I hear dishes fall in the other room and see a shadow moving on the wall. Before I fully understand what is happening, Jack is standing in the doorway.
"Ben?" The tone of his voice is flat and emotionless, but there is a hint of confusion, like he’s surprised to see me awake. Why? Did he drug me or something?
I look at my sister's dead body and then back at Jack. "What have you done?"
The emotion on his face fades. "It was an accident," he says, his voice as dead as my sister's eyes. "I tried to explain…" His voice trails off.
"Explain?"
He stares at her, ignoring my question.
"Explain what, Jack?"
His face grows stern in response to my continued inquiry as though I am an irritating gnat. I look at Rosie again. Her body is in an odd position, her arm tucked under her. He must have dragged her here and just tossed her.
"I needed to feel something, Ben. I tried to explain it to her but she wouldn't listen. She was so angry after I killed you."
Killed me?
"She wouldn't let me touch her." He rubs his arm. "I needed to feel something. Anything. Her nails in my skin and her anger for killing you were—I can't explain it. I needed it."
He needed it? What does that even mean? I grip my stomach as what's in it threatens to come out. I don't understand any of this.
He steps into the room, his face turning placid, and crouches beside us. He looks at Rosie with affection in his eyes—eyes I want to gouge out with my thumbs. "Maybe she's not dead either," he says, his voice hollow.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Maybe she'll wake up," he says, "like you did."
"I wasn't dead."
He glares at me. "I know dead when I see it."
"Well, clearly you don't, ‘cause I'm not dead."
He scowls. "Your skin was cold, you had no pulse, and your body started stinking like beef left out in the sun. Is that dead enough for ya?" He points at Rosie, his face a subtle grimace. "You smelled like that."
I hadn't noticed, but I do now. The smell is horrible.
Could what he's saying be true? Was I dead? Could my sister wake up? The emotion starts to well but is quickly dampened by Jack's persistent monotone voice. "Maybe she’ll wake up, like you did. Maybe death isn't permanent anymore."
The memory fades into the darkness of my mind, and I look at the teacher. “It was. Death was permanent, for her anyway. She didn't get up. I let her sit for a day before the smell was so unbearable that I had no choice but to bring her above ground, even at the risk of being exposed to radiation. I left her in the shed. I was afraid to go outside and get exposed to fallout, but I couldn't leave her there. After a few days, I brought her out and buried her in the yard." The last few words catch in my throat. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." I suck in a breath and attempt to regain my composure. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize," she says.
I take another deep breath and let it out. "After she was in the ground, I waited two days before I decided to go back down into the shelter, and when I decided to go back, I decided to kill him."
The teacher's eyes are filled with sadness. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."
I am hardly able to register her sympathy. In my mind, I'm sitting in a kitchen chair, Jack's blood on my hands, and his body on the floor in front of the kitchen sink. That was the first time I killed him. There were two others. The last was the most gruesome. But I couldn't kill him for good.
The teacher speaks cautiously. "Do you want to tell me the rest?"
After a long pause, I nod. "Jack and I both had blood on our hands. I killed him three times. He killed me twice. And the whole time, I wondered why we were alive and my sister was dead."
"Did you get your answer?"
Her question is rhetorical. She knows. The power of resurrection is discriminate. By it, God chose who would live and who would die—and he wasn't done with me yet.
"Yes. I did," I say. "I got my answer."
"Would you tell me about that?"
I suck in a breath and let it out. "We lived in the shelter for three years and heard many things, as you know. Over time, my heart toward God softened, and I began reading my sister's Bible. Jack never did. I hated him for it. The least he could do was honor her memory by valuing that book as she did. But he remained resistant to the last. I guess that is where the story ends."
I return to the memory of the day we left the shelter—what was left of it.
Jack pushes his bowl away. "That's the last of it. The beans are gone."
I roll out of bed, slip my feet into my shoes, and tighten my blanket around me with a shiver. My body aches, and water sloshes across the concrete floor as I make my way to the food storage room. He's right. It’s picked clean. There's nothing left but the food we stored in our backpacks to sustain us for a short time above ground as we search for more.
I return to the living quarters. "I guess this is it. We're going to find out if God's wrath waits for us up there."
An incredulous expression flashes on his face and is quickly gone.
"Cut it out. You believe it, too."
His voice is cold. "You're a fool, Ben."
"Don't give me that. You could have left at any time, Jack. Once we figured out that there was no radiation, you could have gone up there, taken the mark, and joined the rest of the world, but you didn't. You believed the voice of the angel who warned the world about the mark. You chose to stay down here with me and take a chance that I might kill you again. Don't tell me you don't believe." I throw the blanket on my bed and pull my jacket out of the locker on the wall. "Well, you don't have to worry about me making any more attempts on your life because this is where we part ways, Jack. I told you I'd leave when the last of the food was eaten, and there it is. Eaten." He stares at the bunk as though he can't hear me. "So that's it, then," I say, shouldering my backpack. I turn and slosh my way to the doorway.
Jack's voice stops me. "Wait." The word hangs in the air, and I stand, motionless. "We should do this together," he says. I hear the sound of his locker opening and closing. Is he really coming with me? I don't wait to find out. I walk to the ladder and make my way up.
KA-CHUNK!
The hatch opens and the sunlight stings my eyes. There is no more utility shed to block it. I grunt as I climb out and stand. Below, I hear Jack climbing up the ladder. My spirit growls within me as I start walking toward the house, which is now a pile of broken wood.
"Ben!"
I turn and look at him, my sister's murderer. Broken, thin, desperate. His expression is apologetic, though he's never apologized. But I never apologized to him either. We just started to pretend like it never happened.
Jack looks up at the sky behind me with sheer terror on his face.
As I turn, I see a blazing light that causes me to fall back. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, they bring into focus a handsome man in shimmering white armor with golden trim. He vibrates as though he is attempting to stay here in our dimension, present with us through the use of great power.
He walks toward us, and I back away.
His voice, though not loud, vibrates in my ears and chest. "Who do you serve?"
Jack comes up next to me. "God," he says. "We serve God. Look!" He pulls his sleeves up one at a time, violently. "We didn't get marked." He also presents his face for inspection.
The angel moves closer—his face is placid and beautiful, not matching the tone of his voice. "Jack Coldwell. Who do you serve?"
As Jack trembles in the presence of the angel, a highlighted scripture from my sister's bible comes alive in my mind. At the end of the age, the Son of Man will send out His angels, and they will gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and those who practice lawlessness. Is this it? Are we doomed? What answer can we give the angel? If the answer isn't God, what is it? Another highlighted scripture enters my mind. It's from Joel. Those who call upon the name of the LORD shall be saved. Who do we serve? That's it! The Lord! The angel's voice vibrates in my chest and ears again. "Jack Coldwell. Who do you serve?"
The angel's eyes are like embers stoked in a fire, terror wells in my chest. It is clear that Jack doesn't know the answer. If I do nothing, what will the angel do? Will he take Jack's life? By my inaction, will my sister's killer be gone, for good? The angel takes a step forward, and I move in front of Jack. "Wait," I say, lifting a trembling hand. "Jesus. We serve Jesus, the lamb who was slain."
His eyes examine me and return to Jack. "Who do you serve?"
Jack blurts out, "Jesus! I serve Jesus."
The angel stands silent, his body vibrating with power, his face gentle and kind—but his presence is terrifying. I am unable to take in a breath, the fear is suffocating. Then, though not another word is spoken, the angel steps back, his power dims, and his voice becomes as gentle as his face. "Serve him all the days of your life. To serve him is to love and love is the fulfillment of the law."
"Yes," I say, "we will. We will serve him."
"Peace be with you, Jack Coldwell and Ben Stone."
With that, he rises into the air and shimmers away in radiant light.
I return from the memory, which was as clear as though it happened only minutes ago.
"So, you saved him, you saved the man who murdered your sister."
"Yes. He’s still alive."
"Do you regret doing that?"
I don't answer, and she seems to accept my silence as an answer.
She gets up and walks over to the fire and looks into the pot. "It looks like your soup is done." She draws some out, pours it into a wooden bowl, and brings it to me. After I receive it, she crouches down so that we are at eye level. "Thank you for sharing your story with me. I know it was hard." I give a quick nod without looking at her. The emotion of that day is still with me. "But the story isn't over, Ben."
"I know," I say. "I have a long life to look forward to, and I'm surrounded by blessings." My tone doesn't match my words.
"I don't mean that," she says.
I squint at her. "What do you mean?"
"In the time before, you would have had to bear your loss. But not now. Not here."
My eyes lift, and I examine her warm expression. What does she mean by that? Her smile lifts on one side by the tightening of her cheek.
I know that smile—that playful smile.
She places her hand on mine. "Death is not the end, little brother."
I grip the hand in mine as tears break free from my eyes. I want to speak, but the words won't come. How did I not recognize her? I remember a scene from scripture, Jesus revealing his scars to the men who did not recognize him. My sister is like Jesus, raised with this new body—this strange new body.
"Father and mother are alive as well," she says. "They're in Heaven at the moment, but they plan to visit."
The tightness in my gut forces more tears from my eyes, and I start to sob. She puts her arm around me. Her embrace is a comfort I can't express. It is like we are children again and she has come into my room to console me after a bad dream. I suck in a stuttering breath. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Rosie. I'm so sorry."
"You have grieved enough, little brother. It is time to let it go. You have a beautiful new future filled with such wonders as you've never seen." She hugs me and speaks softly. "And I will visit you often. I promise. I plan to share the adventures of this new world with you. But first—I have one more hurting soul to visit."
