The Seventh Seal (6 page)

“Sons of Liberty rise and toss the Covenant to the fire. 
They are not doing God’s will.”

“You heard it twice?”

“Yeah.  I stood by the radio for as long as I could, and
that’s what I heard.”

“And you say you heard something else a bit later?”

“Hail the riff.  You know where, Sons of Liberty.  Get there
soon.  Two horns up.”

John looked out the window as the dark, empty eyes of the
houses stared back at him.  He considered the broadcasts, turning them over and
over in his head.

“Is there a radio in this thing?”

“No, but I grabbed one off my receptionist’s desk.”

“Turn it on and see if you can pick up anything.”

Crackling static filled the cab as Alex turned the knob on
the old AM/FM radio, a safecracker searching for riches in the form of
invisible airwaves.  The blip of a man’s voice broke the wall of interference. 
Exultant, Alex backed the dial until the voice popped through again.

“…nothing more than sadistic murderers in a bizarre Holy War
of the 21
^st
century.  Rise up with the Sons of Liberty!”

The static took control once again.  Alex turned the knob,
ready to fly further up the dial.

“Wait.  If it isn’t a live broadcast, it’ll probably
repeat,” John said.

An angry down-tuned guitar roared to life from the puny mono
speaker, then faded back into nonexistence as the voice returned.

“Citizens of Cleveland and the United States of America,
lend me your ear.  The situation is dire.  Monsters slaughter friends and
families while our way of life stands on the brink of extinction.  Within the
past week, a right-wing Christian Fundamentalist organization took control of
our national forces.  Led locally by a priest known simply as ‘Father’, they
mobilized the entire US military in an attempt to eradicate any that do not
subscribe to their rigid beliefs.  The destruction is probably happening in
every major city of our great land.  They call themselves the ‘Holy Covenant’. 
The Holy War is designed to root out and destroy anyone that is not part of the
Covenant.  We believe that the first phase of the takeover is coming to an
end.  Nobody knows for sure what will follow the ‘First Cleansing’, but rest
assured, they will not stop until all of America is under their heel.  The
church labels us of different faiths, or no faith, as Infidels.  They break
into our homes and murder our families in the name of God.  The red pentagram
signifies the residence of an Infidel. 

“Brothers in the cities closest to us, such as Pittsburgh
and Columbus, have shared similar stories.  The military has usurped
communication and transportation.  In addition, they have taken over the major
electricity feeds, with the Covenant controlling the switch.  Our scouts
estimate 70 percent of our citizens killed or imprisoned by the First
Cleansing.  We gained scraps of intel from soldiers and priests captured in the
fighting.  Although they refuse to divulge much, even under extreme torture, we
do know that the Holy Covenant thinks it is fighting the Final Battle of good
vs. evil.  In their eyes, when Jesus returns, they will go with him and leave
the Infidels behind in a burning, smoking ruin of a civilization.

“However, we are not ready to lie down and die at the hands
of the demented faithful.  A band of resistance has formed and is organizing. 
We have sent cryptic messages out in the hopes that the Covenant will not be
able to identify our gathering place.  We are the Sons of Liberty, and we will
take this country back.  Please find your way to our base.  Drive, walk or
crawl and bring any that wish to resist the Covenant.  Find the Temple of Doom
where the sun sets on the Old West.  This is where we gather.

“This message will repeat for as long as the Covenant cannot
find the broadcasting tower.  We are not ready to die under ‘God’s hand’.  This
is our country and we will fight for it to our dying breath.”

John pulled the truck to the side of the road, and killed
the engine and the lights.  They reached an on-ramp to route 271.

“I know where they are.”

“The Jigsaw Saloon?”

“Has to be.  ‘Temple of Doom where the sun sets on the Old
West’.  The Jigsaw is on the west side and books stoner rock and doom bands all
the time.”

“What were the chances that two stoner-rock fans end up in
this together?”

John smiled.

“How do we get there?” Alex asked.

“If we take the highway, we’re less likely to stick out,
especially at seventy or eighty miles an hour.  But of course, if we are
recognized, all they need to do is block the highway ahead and we’re toast.”

Alex looked at John, looked at him truly as a person rather
than a patient, took a good long look for the first time.

“They were calling you ‘John the Revelator’.  Apparently
they think you’re some Pope-approved leader of the new apocalypse.”

John nodded.

“I guess if I were part of the Church I’d understand what
the hell that means, but for now, we need to keep moving.”

Alex shrugged his shoulders with indifference.

“You’re behind the wheel.”

John brought the greasy diesel engine to life.  Exhaust
fumes snuck into the cab, delivering the bitter taste of fossil fuels.  They
took deep breaths from the windows and staved off the nauseous attack.  John
accelerated down the ramp and onto 271.  Corpses of cars were piled seven high
on each shoulder, reaching the top of the sound barrier.  From above, the scene
looked as if a child had been playing with Matchbox cars and stacked them when
he was done.  Black skid marks snaked across the pavement, even in the dim
light of the fading November sun.  An arm or leg hung out of some of the
wrecks, painted in deep shades of red.  Alex found a rusty searchlight in the
truck and positioned it on his window.  The painted pentagram appeared every
hundred feet on the sound walls.

Twice in the first ten miles on 271 military vehicles sped
past them going the opposite direction, but neither bothered to communicate or
stop the renegade Humvee.  John slalomed through the abandoned cars at seventy
miles an hour until he approached the intersection of 271 and route 480. 
There, the 480 westbound looped around and underneath 271.  At the point of the
bend, a massive pileup, dozens of cars, stretched across all three lanes.  John
slowed their vehicle to a stop, killed the engine, and let the head lights
illuminate the grisly scene.

Both men stared into a wall of twisted, charred metal. 
Blistered paint bubbled on panels of steel, making the cars look like the scaly
skin of a dragon.  Doors flung aside revealed darkened interiors where people
once talked, laughed and sang together on the way to work or home from a
party.  Alex got out and stood next to John.  They looked to the right side of
the metal mountain at an opening extending three feet in width.

“There.  Can we force our way through that?”

John put his hand over his forehead and squinted.

“Maybe.  Let’s see if it’s open through to the other side. 
If it is, we can get a running start.”

The men walked closer.  They put their arms up to their face
as the unmistakable scent of burnt hair forced the men to pause and cough. 
Alex stepped down and picked up a pink teddy bear dressed as a ballerina.  One
eye had fallen out and the bear had dried blood on its foot.  Alex straightened
the tiara and wiped grease from the plush fur.  He shoved the bear into his
pocket and fought against the memories of his daughter playing in the backyard.

“Wait here and make sure nobody bum rushes us,” said John.

“Who are you, P. Diddy?  Nobody says ‘bum rush’ anymore.”

John flipped Alex the middle finger and maneuvered through
the first couple of cars.

One minivan was turned sideways at the end of the opening. 
John calculated that the truck would be able to knock it out of the way – if
they had enough speed.  He retraced his steps to Alex, who stood in the white
beams of the truck’s headlights.  Night was falling, and taking the temperature
with it.

“I think we can get through there.  The metal rails  on the
bumper should prevent us from doing any damage to the truck when we hit the
pile.”

“Let’s go, Evel Knievel.”

“You dated my ‘bum rush’ comment by another decade.  Nice,”
John said.

The men got back in the truck.  John massaged the gear
shifter into reverse.  It scraped, screeched, and sputtered.  The worn
transmission obeyed the command of the driver, protesting the continued
backward motion.  Back they went, until finally John turned around to face the
wall of twisted metal at a distance of three hundred yards. 

“You may want to keep your arm inside the vehicle,” John
said.

Alex ducked low and covered his face with a jacket in
anticipation of flying shards of glass.  The truck lurched forward, tons of
metal fighting against gravity.  As it shifted into third gear, John slid down
in his seat and held the wheel.

An ungodly noise erupted from the sides of the truck as
sparks shot across the hood.  Alex felt like he was in the mouth of a giant
beast, fighting to avoid being crushed by gigantic teeth.  When the men thought
their eardrums might split, the truck collided with the sliding passenger door
of the minivan.  They lurched forward and felt the seat belts bite into the
soft flesh of their shoulders.  The truck slammed into the van and started to
spin sideways as it forced the minivan to the left.  They fishtailed to the far
right of the shoulder and faced back toward the pileup as the truck came to a
rest.

“Holy shit,” said John.

“Fuck,” replied Alex.  “If there were Holy Rollers in the
area, that would have gotten their attention.  See if you can get this thing
started again and let’s get out of here.”

John turned the key, but the truck just emitted a low
chunking noise.  He tried again, and then a third and fourth time.  He slammed
his fist on the dash and spit out the broken window.

“There,” said Alex.

From the other side of the pileup, and penetrating through
the jagged passage, a faint light grew.  They heard the thick tire tread
vibrating off of the soft asphalt.

“Try it again, hurry!” Alex screamed.

John turned the key and the truck came alive.  He threw it
into the lowest gear possible and maneuvered behind the minivan, which now
rested on its roof.  John idled up to the rear bumper of the minivan and gunned
the accelerator.  The truck slid the van back into the pile amidst a shower of
sparks.  John gave it another two bursts from the accelerator to make sure the
van lodged in the opening.  He turned the wheel to the left and shifted again. 
Alex stuck his head out the window.  As the truck drove away, beams of light
burst through the openings in the wreckage like the flickering light inside a jack-o’-lantern.

“Something has happened, Father.”

“What is it?”

“Father Thomas has woken up, but he seems disoriented.”

“Bring him to me.”

Father lit a cigar and tilted his chair back.  Generators
rumbled from the boiler room as the electricity provided light to St.
Michael’s.  In addition, the rickety boiler in the subbasement came to life. 
Soldiers from the 165
^th
Infantry division had revived it after ten
hours of triage.  The old piece of hissing pipe and steam bathed the stone
church in comforting warmth as the nights grew colder.  Father paged through
the reports, noting the pockets of resistance while coaxing the sweet tobacco
from his blunt.  He heard the two men coming down the hallway toward his office
in the back of the church.

“May God be with you, Father,” said Thomas.

Father waved the third priest away.  The man pulled the door
as he stepped out of the room, but did not close it all the way.

“Sit, my son, and tell me what happened downstairs.”

“He reveals nothing.”

Father rubbed his chin and stared deep into the man’s vacant
and bloodshot eyes.

“Who reveals nothing?” he asked.

“John.  He is gone now and so is the vet.”

“Yes, they took him to the vet’s office, to conduct tests.”

“No your holiness, they are gone.  Lucifer spit his fire on
the road to salvation.”

Father summoned the other priest back into the room.

“Please make sure Father Thomas is cared for in the
infirmary.  He is still having difficulty organizing his thoughts.”

The priest bent at the waist and escorted Thomas from the
office.  The cigar sat in the ashtray, smoldering and sputtering.  Father
reached over and snuffed the lit end.  He walked out of the office and into the
back of the church.  Priests knelt in the pews, saying their evening prayers. 
An armed guard stood next to the main door, doing his best to stay awake.

“Soldier,” said Father.

“Yes sir,” he replied.

“Dispatch a team to the vet’s office and bring him and John
the Revelator back here.”

The young warrior spun on his heels and jumped into a jeep.  Father
watched the jeep disappear down East Eighth Street.

Jana crawled out from under the sink.  The part of her
uniform wrapped around the wound turned light red.  She tugged at the moist
cloth, hoping to check on the cut.  However, the sticky mess forced an
eye-watering reluctance.  At length, Jana lay facedown on the cold kitchen
floor, waiting for the muscle spasms in her legs and feet to subside.  She
smelled fried chicken.  The shattered glass from the broken beer bottle
scattered across the floor, and the beer dried into sticky patches.

The frigid room invited the crescent moon to light one
corner with a chilled glow.  Jana’s eyebrows furrowed at the sight of both
screen doors flapping in the night, hanging from their hinges and unlocked.

She rubbed her calves and toes, working the blood back into
circulation.  The cramps subsided, allowing her to stand.  Jana walked upstairs
to her bedroom, navigating through the shattered remains of a nightstand and
lamp.  She pulled a messenger bag from the closet and threw essentials into
it.  Inside plain underwear, Jana wrapped a toothbrush, Band-Aids, deodorant,
soap, and a hairbrush.  She changed into old jeans and a heavy sweatshirt while
packing more.  Then she sat on the edge of the bed and cried.  For twenty
minutes Jana cried.  Finally, she knocked the tears aside and shook them from
her face.

Jana slid the shower door open and grabbed the waterproof
radio off the gooseneck of the shower.  She rubbed a finger over the battery
compartment, hoping they still held a charge.  Jana slid the dial to “on” and
turned the volume down.  Even though John had left it tuned to his favorite FM
station, the radio bleated nothing but static.  She turned it off and threw
that into her bag as well.  If the electricity did not return, the radio might
be her only connection to the rest of the world – assuming it still existed.

Her shoulder supported the single strap of the messenger bag
as she slung it over her neck.  Jana shoved her wallet and keys into the
pockets of her jeans, deciding against a stylish purse.

Before setting out, she scavenged leftovers from the
fridge.  A cold plate of flounder and mashed potatoes greeted a chilled soda. 
She glanced at the kitchen counter and slid the butcher knife from its base. 
Jana measured the length of the bag in her head and compared that to the knife
in her hand.  Rather than risk the knife slicing through, she left it on the
counter.

Jana decided to move out on foot, given the fact that she
had not seen anything but military vehicles on Mayfield Road.  She did not want
to draw the attention of the men who came hunting her a few hours ago.

Outside, brittle, yellow leaves brushed her ankles and
swarmed near the privacy fence.  Most of the trees banished their leaves to the
encroaching winter and the wind enjoyed knocking them about.  A dog barked far
off in the distance.  Jana heard none of the traffic that usually sped down
Mayfield at the end of the block.  She looked at the dark windows of the
neighbor’s house, hoping nothing looked back.  The stench of rotting garbage
displaced the usual fall fragrance of hot apple cider.  She kept her back to
the house and stepped sideways down the driveway.  Her injured leg dug into the
side faucet, forcing her to stifle a scream of pain.  Jana slowed her pace and
scanned for movement.  From the lawn, she looked back at her house.  She
remembered John’s glance as he pulled away.  Jana felt his spirit, alive and
defiant.  She noticed a marking on the brick to the right of her front door,
near the bay window.  Jana squinted and bent over toward the house.  The red
pentagram glowered above the house numbers, 2913.

She scuttled down the sidewalk toward Mayfield.  Doors swung
open in the November wind, slamming back and forth into the doorframe.  White,
floating drapery escaped the windows, dancing in the night air.  The ghosts of
suburbia left still cars in driveways and toys on lawns.

Jana realized she had forgotten a flashlight.  She cursed
under her breath and started toward her front door when the sound of a jeep
moving down Mayfield stopped her in her tracks.  Jana jumped behind a hedgerow
as the headlights cut across Mayfield and pointed down Plainfield.  The vehicle
crept along while a soldier on the passenger side passed a spotlight up and
down each house.  The beam blasted the entire property with a blinding intensity. 
The soldier swung the light from the window to the door.  Once he located the
pentagram, the vehicle inched farther down the street to the next house.  When
it got a block or two away , Jana spied another soldier aiming the blinding
light at empty houses on the other side of Plainfield.

Jana made it to the corner of Plainfield and Mayfield, which
sat bathed in absolute silence.  On a normal evening, customers would be
driving through the ATM station at the bank.  The drive-up window in the fast-food
restaurant across the street would be pulsing, voices squawking from the window
intercom over the rap and hip-hop bass lines of the customers.  Across the
street, the Mayfield Street Bar would have its front door open to allow smokers
a place to spill out onto the sidewalk.  But on this evening, Jana saw
nothing.  Out of curiosity, Jana walked toward the ATM machine.  The cold
reflection of the moon shone off the display screen.  The cash dispenser and
drive-up window appeared deserted, as if everyone simply walked away.

Jana sprinted across the street to the fast-food restaurant,
where chairs and tables sat empty.  The emergency floodlights stared with blank
eyes, and shattered, outer glass doors spilled onto the sidewalk.  Jana stepped
through the metal frame, greeted by the reek of rotten meat and soured milk. 
She stumbled over trays scattered across the floor and back into the night.

She scampered past more shops and businesses, all of which
sat utterly deserted.  She saw cars at weird angles near the edge of the road. 
Jana imagined drivers leaping from their vehicles and scrambling toward safety,
away from an unknown threat.  She did not want to get close, for fear there
might be someone inside.  As a nurse, Jana spent as little time as possible
around dead bodies.  If a patient died in a hospital room, she would summon the
coroner’s office right away, often raising the ire of the mourning family.

Jana stopped at the next intersection, where the traffic
lights swung in silent protest.  A BP gas station on the opposite corner
offered Jana the hope of grabbing dry goods or snacks.

She walked past the gas pumps, which had spilled gallons onto
the ground when the world fell asleep.  The aroma overwhelmed and frightened
her.  As she got closer to the sliding doors, Jana saw shards of glass covering
the curb, and stacked pallets of windshield-washer fluid on sale for
eighty-nine cents.  More glass crunched under her feet as she placed one foot
inside the store.  The hairs came up on the back of her neck, and adrenaline
flooded Jana’s system.  Her senses tingled, and as she turned back toward the
spewing gas pumps, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.  A dark
flash knocked her to the ground.  Jana’s head bounced off the pavement with a
sick, dull thud.  Her eyes focused and then blurred on the dark fluorescent
bulbs hanging underneath the canopy.  She heard voices, low and muttered,
speaking to her and about her.  They swam in her ears and she was unable to
decipher any of it while her brain struggled to regain control.  Before passing
out, Jana heard a distinct voice.

“Get her inside before they come back,” slid into her ears
as she succumbed to the encroaching concussion.