Vestige (8 page)

“He sounds legit. Doesn’t he?” added the barista.

“Clarke, maybe you should read this.” Micah pushed the laptop closer to her.

She looked at the screen for a few minutes and started to laugh. “Come on, Micah. Do you actually think the government wants to purify the human race? Didn’t we fight in a war to prevent that sort of thing? What’s changed since World War II, huh? That wasn’t that long ago. And why would the government take all the dogs?”

“They’ve taken all the people with flawed DNA so maybe they found out that dogs have flawed DNA too,” replied the barista. “If you read all his posts, you’ll have your questions answered. This guy knows his stuff.”

“Oh, come on. Micah this is a load of crap. Was your mom sick?” asked Clarke.

“No. Neither was my brother,” answered Micah.

“Interesting….” started the barista. “I’m sure Mr. Doomsday can explain—”

“Was the owner of this place sick?” interrupted Clarke.

“He had diabetes, high cholesterol, and high blood pressure,” answered the barista.

“Ah huh, and do you have any of those?” asked Clarke.

“Um…I’m a diabetic,” the barista muttered.

“Then, why are you still here? Make sure you ask Mr. Dumb Ass that one.” Clarke smiled smugly, sat back in her chair, and took a sip of her coffee.

“What do you know?” The barista swooped his brawny arms in between the teens, grabbed his laptop, and returned to his station behind the counter.

“Maybe we should go,” suggested Micah.

“Fine, the coffee sucks anyway,” Clarke yelled loud enough for the barista to hear.

They left Starbucks, crossed the street, and walked towards the village hall. Now, at least fifty or sixty people crowded the stairs and the front lawn. Micah didn’t want to get too close to the crowd, so they hung back by the gigantic fountain, which decorated the courtyard. On hot summer days, little kids would play in this fountain as their parents sat on the benches with their dogs in tow. Micah wondered if he would ever get a chance to see that familiar scene again.

A few seconds after they arrived, a police car pulled up in front of the building. One officer stepped out of the car. Dressed in riot gear and carrying a bullhorn, he approached the mob. The officer stopped at the edge of the crowd and raised the bullhorn. “For your own safety, please return to your homes.”

The mumble of the crowd grew louder, but nobody left their spot.

“Clarke, maybe we should go. I’ve got a bad feeling,” whispered Micah.

“Yeah, in a minute. I want to see what’s going to happen,” replied Clarke.

The doors of the building opened, and a priest stepped out. The crowd turned from the cop to the priest and began to push towards him.

“Tell us what’s going on,” yelled a woman.

The crowd shouted in agreement.

“Yeah—”

“What’s going on—”

“We want our kids back—”

The priest stood on the top stair and held his hands up, motioning for the crowd to settle down. Within seconds, he had their full attention. “I’m not authorized to make an official statement, but the village president will issue one soon.” The priest raised his right hand and blessed the crowd by making the sign of the cross in the air.

“We don’t need a blessing. We want some information...now!” yelled a man.

The priest ignored the man and continued down the stairs. Before he stepped into the crowd, someone launched a bottle into the air, striking the priest’s forehead. The priest staggered forward. A trickle of blood trailed down the side of his face. Like a herd of sharks on a feeding frenzy, the crowd surged around the priest and swallowed him whole.

The cop dropped the bullhorn and detached a giant can of pepper spray from his belt. He aimed it at the crowd, causing the mob to part. The people hit by the spray clutched their faces and fell to their knees. Soon, the cop was standing were the priest once stood.

A man charged towards the cop, but the cop pulled out a Taser and pointed it at the man. The Taser caught the man’s shoulder. He fell to the ground and convulsed for several seconds.

The people that had not been pepper sprayed pushed towards the cop. Several men began to pummel him with their fists. The riot gear did not protect the officer. Within minutes, his helmet and face shield were gone, leaving his face exposed. Blood spewed from his mouth and his eyes were swollen shut. When the officer could no longer stand, the crowd forced him to the ground and kicked him, over and over.

Concerned faces peered out from the windows of the village hall, but no one came out of the building to help either of the victims. A negative energy hung in the air like the smell of garbage on a humid day. Micah felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t imagine that anyone would survive that kind of beating.

“Oh God, Micah, we need to do something,” Clarke muttered, her voice cracking.

“We need to leave.” He grabbed her hand and led her back across the street.

“You were right, Micah. We should have left as soon as that cop pulled up.”

When they passed in front of the Starbucks, they saw the construction-worker barista standing in the window. He laughed and cheered as if he was watching a football game, and his team had just scored a touchdown.

Micah looked towards the ground, dropped Clarke’s hand, and started to run. He needed to escape the ugliness. He heard Clarke running behind him; at least, he hoped it was Clarke.

They had been running for blocks when Clarke begged him to stop. “Micah…slow down. I never said…that I…could run…a seven-minute…mile.”

Micah stopped and looked back at her. Clarke stopped then too. Her chest heaved in and out. She grabbed her side as she tried to catch her breath. At last, she fell to the grass.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.... Are…you?” Clarke responded in between breaths.

“That was...that was...” Micah put his hands on his knees and bent over Clarke.

“That was horrific. I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. Why did they do that?” Clarke sat up and looked at Micah. “Seriously, Micah, are you okay? You don’t look good. You’re so pale. Maybe you should sit down.”

Micah didn’t answer right away. He put his hands on his head and walked in a circle. He had the same feeling he had in the dream. Was he dreaming again? Nothing seemed real anymore. None of his mother’s drills had prepared him for what he had experienced in the last eighteen hours. “Seriously, Clarke, I’m fine, but I think we need to get indoors. It’s not safe out here. How far is your house?”

“It’s only a couple blocks away.”

“Let’s go.” He extended his hand down towards her.

She took it.

Micah pulled her up from the ground, and they walked the rest of the way to her house.

Chapter Eight

Thomas couldn’t stand to hear another confession. He had been listening to people repent for hours and needed a break. When he stepped out of the confessional, he gasped at the sight of a full church. “Christ, these better be the same people and not new ones,” he muttered to himself. He put his head down and walked towards the musicians. When Arnie and Martin noticed Thomas, they stopped playing.

“I need a break. I’ll be in my office,” Thomas whispered. “Why don’t you take a break too?”

“Sure, Father. We can use one,” agreed Arnie, who then addressed the congregation. “Excuse me. We’re going to break for lunch. You’re welcome to stay here, but remember where you are. Remain respectful, no talking, eating, drinking, or cell-phone use." The two musicians exited the church behind Thomas.

Although Thomas didn’t need to eat or drink, he needed to get away from the desperation. Where was Vincent? He should have been back by now. One man could not deal with all these people on his own. He shut the door of his office, collapsed onto the couch, and closed his eyes.

Thomas sat in the confessional. The small rectangular door in front of the screen slid open on its own.

A shadow moved across the screen and made the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...”

Thomas recognized the voice immediately. “Vincent? Is that you?”

“It is, but I can’t stay.”

“Why not? Where do you have to go now?”

“I’m one of the last to be harvested. I made it in, Thomas.”

“I don’t understand. You can’t go. I need you Father. I can’t do this anymore.”

“It’s the end, Thomas, and you have a job to do.”

“The end of what? I need your help, Vincent. I don’t know what these people want from me.”

“You’re not here to help the people. Those who are left are the weeds. You’re here to help the Guardian because, you see, he doesn’t know that he is the Guardian. He is alone with only the witnesses to help him.”

“The witnesses?”

“The homeless man and the dog. But, as of yet, they haven’t been able to do much other than identify the beast. So, my dear Thomas, you have been chosen. You must hurry. You don’t have much time…” Father Vincent fell silent.

“Father, are you there? Father Vincent?”

Thomas began to sweat. His collar felt tight. He needed more information than that. What was he supposed to do exactly? And more importantly, whom was he supposed to help? “Vincent…please…answer me.”

“Poor Thomas.” A new voice drifted through the screen. This voice was deep and smooth. “Your friend is gone, but I’m here.” Thomas didn’t recognize this voice.

“Who are you?” Thomas tried to make out the shadow on the screen.

“Oh, come on, Thomas. You know me. I’ve been with you for quite some time. I live in your heart.”

“My Lord, is that you?” asked Thomas.

The shadow threw its head back and let out a booming laugh. Thomas’s breath turned icy, and goose bumps covered his arms.

“The Lord isn’t here Thomas...just you and me. You’ll only be able to help the Guardian if you can find him. It’s too bad that you don’t even know who he is. I do.”

The screen began to drip like the wax of a burning candle until it was completely gone. A young, well-dressed man stared at Thomas from the other side of the opening, his black eyes penetrating Thomas’s thoughts. The man reached through the opening and grabbed the priest’s robes. He pulled Thomas close to his face, so close that Thomas could feel the man’s breath and smell the sulfur he exhaled.

“You can’t defeat me,”
said the man. “I know what’s in your heart Thomas. You are no match for me.”

Thomas looked into the man’s eyes, but his eyes weren’t eyes at all. They were windows to a place that Thomas didn’t believe existed. Thomas watched as naked bodies twisted in agony, each one reaching for him and begging for his help.

Thomas tried to escape, but the man’s grip was too tight. He wanted to divert his eyes, but he couldn’t turn away from the windows. Then Thomas saw her. He saw his mother…reaching for him. He could hear her screaming “Thomas…help me! Please…Thomas…”

“Yes, Thomas...look at her. All your sacrifice was for nothing.” The man laughed.

“Father...Father...wake-up. Father...”

Thomas opened his eyes and saw Arnie standing over him. As Thomas sat up, Arnie took a step back and sat in the chair across from him.

Arnie put his head in his hands and started to cry. “Father, I have some bad news.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Father Vincent.... He’s been murdered, or at least, they think he’s been murdered.”

“What?”

“A riot broke out at the village hall. Father Vincent and a police officer were attacked.”

“They’re dead?” Thomas ran his fingers through his hair. “This can’t be happening.”

“The military are saying that they’re dead, but…”

“But what?” Thomas asked.

“They didn’t find their bodies. Witnesses say that they just disappeared into the crowd. I guess they found some of the cop’s equipment—his helmet and shield. They also found this…” Arnie handed Thomas a priest’s collar, Father Vincent’s collar.

Thomas reached for it. “Jesus…” Now what was he going to do?

Chapter Nine

Clarke and Micah stood on the porch of Clarke’s hundred-year-old Victorian. Micah noted the level of disrepair. The house’s paint chipped and peeled. The nine from the address plate hung upside down, pretending to be a six. And a faded plastic Santa stood next to the front door, looking as if it had been there for the better part of a decade. Micah refrained from comment. After all, who was he to judge?

Clarke fumbled to unlock the door but paused when she heard a commotion on the porch next door. A woman walked backwards out the front door. She wore a pink cashmere sweater, dark jeans, and a three-inch pair of heals—the ones with the red soles. Her diamond earrings sparkled in the sun.

“Micah, that’s my neighbor from the other side, Mrs. Waters,” Clarke whispered.

Mrs. Waters took small steps. She looked as if she were carrying something bulky. Soon, a fifty-five inch flat-screen TV floated out the doorway, followed by Mr. Waters. As Mrs. Waters backed down the stairs, she glared at Clarke.

“Do the Faheys know that you’re taking their new TV?” Clarke asked.

“What do you care? This is between the Faheys and us. You need to mind your own business,” Mrs. Waters answered.

“Just keep going. Who cares about her,” instructed Mr. Waters.

“Clarke, come on. We don’t need any more trouble. Let’s just get inside.” Micah took the keys out of Clarke’s hand and opened the door. He turned around, grabbed Clarke by the arm, and pulled her into the house.

“Micah, you don’t understand. Mrs. Fahey is an angel. She’s always been so nice to me. She brings me homemade banana bread. The Waters are assholes. If they’re stealing the Faheys’ stuff, I have to do something about it.”

“When’s the last time you saw any of the Faheys? Maybe they’ve disappeared. If they’re gone, there’s no point in starting trouble with the Waters. You saw what happened today. It’s like everyone has gone insane.”