think he’ll show up at all?”
“If he doesn’t, we’re pretty much screwed. But I think our best chance is the river.”
“But the road goes west….” I whined.
“And that’s what the demons will expect us to take. No, we follow the water to the south and find the river.”
I sighed, but agreed.
We continued swimming for a long time, and my arms grew heavier and heavier. Finally, when it seemed I couldn’t take another stroke, my foot touched the bottom.
“Hey, it’s shallower here,” I said.
Infinity nodded, then pointed to a clump of dead trees by the water.
“Over there.”
I pulled myself out of the water and threw myself down for a long minute to rest. When I’d taken my minute, I joined Infinity, who stood at the edge of the trees, looking in the direction we were headed. I realized that we were on a small island.
“Which direction now?” I asked.
“Downstream,” she said, still staring.
“Uh, Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Look.” I pointed at a small wooden shingle similar to those that had been on the church roof. Instead of floating downstream, it swirled in the water beside our small island, never leaving.
“Which way is downstream?” Back to ToC
8. the lunatic fringe
DAMIEN: EASTERN TENNESSEE: DAY 715
I don’t know what I thought would happen when the revolution came. For years, Dad had filled my head—and those of his students—with tales from the American and French revolutions; stories of blood and death, yes, but mostly stories of courageous men who stood up to tyranny and made a new nation. That’s what he had been preaching to me; privately, of course. Even though this was the United States of America—or was—one could still get in trouble by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
Dad was politically active in those last days before the Event. He knew the right people. Dad was always like that. He always knew which side of the toast the butter was on. Somehow he knew that great things, frightening things were about to happen in our world, and he took advantage of that knowledge.
Looking back at it, I realized that his foreknowledge and ability to get in with the right crowd made all the difference in our survival. I was an officer—a lieutenant—and had people salute me every day, which still was hard to get used to. But the Old Man was none other than Colonel Apollyon, the Angel of Death.
After the Eastern Seaboard went down, we all moved to Ohio. Dayton, Ohio, to be exact. That’s where I spent most of my time, usually doing a little clerical work and as little as possible while avoiding the brass that came through on occasion. Dayton wasn’t Baltimore, but it was OK, especially since they had restored power, indoor plumbing and even an occasional movie at the local theater. While Dad traveled a lot, I was the official go-fer. My collar said I was a lieutenant, but real soldiers knew—just as I knew—that the closest I had ever been to a firefight was seeing jets fly over or watching a John Wayne movie.
So I was pretty surprised when Dad called me into his mobile HQ. It was a refurbished motor home, painted camouflage green with armor plating on the sides. The van was located in the Wal-Mart parking lot, with lots of military vehicles coming and going around the HQ. I stepped up to the two Asian soldiers who stood outside the entryway, responded when they saluted, and then gave one of them the written command I’d received. He read it briefly and nodded. He then opened the door and I climbed up the steps into the RV.
Dad was on the phone, as usual. Regular cell phone service had just recently come back for this part of the country, but use was monitored and restricted to the military. Dad sat at his desk in the back of the RV, barking out orders in Chinese. Most of the occupation forces already spoke English, but I suspect he was using his limited mastery of Mandarin to prove a point. I had to admit that he had picked it up pretty
“If he doesn’t, we’re pretty much screwed. But I think our best chance is the river.”
“But the road goes west….” I whined.
“And that’s what the demons will expect us to take. No, we follow the water to the south and find the river.”
I sighed, but agreed.
We continued swimming for a long time, and my arms grew heavier and heavier. Finally, when it seemed I couldn’t take another stroke, my foot touched the bottom.
“Hey, it’s shallower here,” I said.
Infinity nodded, then pointed to a clump of dead trees by the water.
“Over there.”
I pulled myself out of the water and threw myself down for a long minute to rest. When I’d taken my minute, I joined Infinity, who stood at the edge of the trees, looking in the direction we were headed. I realized that we were on a small island.
“Which direction now?” I asked.
“Downstream,” she said, still staring.
“Uh, Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Look.” I pointed at a small wooden shingle similar to those that had been on the church roof. Instead of floating downstream, it swirled in the water beside our small island, never leaving.
“Which way is downstream?” Back to ToC
8. the lunatic fringe
DAMIEN: EASTERN TENNESSEE: DAY 715
I don’t know what I thought would happen when the revolution came. For years, Dad had filled my head—and those of his students—with tales from the American and French revolutions; stories of blood and death, yes, but mostly stories of courageous men who stood up to tyranny and made a new nation. That’s what he had been preaching to me; privately, of course. Even though this was the United States of America—or was—one could still get in trouble by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
Dad was politically active in those last days before the Event. He knew the right people. Dad was always like that. He always knew which side of the toast the butter was on. Somehow he knew that great things, frightening things were about to happen in our world, and he took advantage of that knowledge.
Looking back at it, I realized that his foreknowledge and ability to get in with the right crowd made all the difference in our survival. I was an officer—a lieutenant—and had people salute me every day, which still was hard to get used to. But the Old Man was none other than Colonel Apollyon, the Angel of Death.
After the Eastern Seaboard went down, we all moved to Ohio. Dayton, Ohio, to be exact. That’s where I spent most of my time, usually doing a little clerical work and as little as possible while avoiding the brass that came through on occasion. Dayton wasn’t Baltimore, but it was OK, especially since they had restored power, indoor plumbing and even an occasional movie at the local theater. While Dad traveled a lot, I was the official go-fer. My collar said I was a lieutenant, but real soldiers knew—just as I knew—that the closest I had ever been to a firefight was seeing jets fly over or watching a John Wayne movie.
So I was pretty surprised when Dad called me into his mobile HQ. It was a refurbished motor home, painted camouflage green with armor plating on the sides. The van was located in the Wal-Mart parking lot, with lots of military vehicles coming and going around the HQ. I stepped up to the two Asian soldiers who stood outside the entryway, responded when they saluted, and then gave one of them the written command I’d received. He read it briefly and nodded. He then opened the door and I climbed up the steps into the RV.
Dad was on the phone, as usual. Regular cell phone service had just recently come back for this part of the country, but use was monitored and restricted to the military. Dad sat at his desk in the back of the RV, barking out orders in Chinese. Most of the occupation forces already spoke English, but I suspect he was using his limited mastery of Mandarin to prove a point. I had to admit that he had picked it up pretty
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