CHAPTER 5

            Sophie woke to the sound of rain flicking against her windows. It was cold and grey outside, more wintery than usual for this time of year. Window panes rattled slightly as the wind pressed against them from the outside. Sophie loved this room. Mementos collected from her time abroad lined the long oak shelves that ran along the walls. Trinkets collected from South America, Egypt, and Africa shortly after Armageddon. She’d been eighteen at the time, barely a woman, but just old enough to be able to volunteer for her own rotational assignment.

            Now I know how Jepthah felt, her father had said as he held her head in his trembling hands.

            Except I signed myself up for this, Sophie had thought, but didn’t say.

            She remembered the tug of emotions as she waved goodbye to her parents from aboard the barge in San Francisco Bay. Their eyes had been misty and red, but hers were dry. There was so much to look forward to. Besides, she relished the promise of freedom and ached for adventure. And adventure had come.

            Those years were perfect. She spent her nights gliding across a placid sea, drifting down the West Coast into Mexico, and finally easing into the Panama Canal. Due to the massive amounts of electricity required to operate the canal’s locking gates being unavailable, mighty angels were stationed at each of the locks, charged with the sole task of their operation. Their humility and obvious joy in serving their human brothers was something Sophie would remember for the rest of her life–that is to say, forever.

            Sophie wrote down her experiences each day in a series of leather journals. When they became too numerous to haul around, she’d ship them home in a wooden crate. When Sophie finally returned, over a century had passed, and she was astounded to find nearly four hundred of her journals waiting for her, storing her experiences carefully in their pages.

            On rainy days like this, with nothing else to do, Sophie would crawl into her favorite recliner in the den, build herself a small fire, and read through some of her old journals. The sights and sounds and smells wafted up from the pages and flooded her imagination. It had been the best time of her life. It had been tiring, of course–constantly on the move, volunteering with salvaging crews and transit and even learning more than she ever expected to learn about machines and engines and electrical systems. But those days had been sweet and fulfilling, and now that phase had ended.

            The first wave of resurrected righteous ones had been the next adventure. Five decades ago she’d returned and helped with the construction of the family’s welcome center, and within weeks of its completion the dead were coming back. Family and friends that had passed away during the previous system’s twenty-first century. A new kind of joy, and no less exciting.

            If Sophie was completely honest with herself, she hadn’t entirely looked forward to what was to come next. The unrighteous. The ones who hadn’t had a chance, or for some reason or another, were deemed worthy of more chances. It wasn’t that she wasn’t excited to see the mother or other relatives she’d never known. She just didn’t feel ready. Not yet.

            Sophie craned her neck to gaze over at the ancient nickel clock on her bedside table. It was 8:03. There would be no time for Sophie’s run, the one thing she had been expectant for this morning. She sighed. Sophie yanked her languorous limbs from the sheets, ran her nails through her hair and pulled her clothes on.

            It had been a whole week since the return of the woman she was supposed to call mother. Despite the hours spent talking and explaining, Sophie wasn’t sure any real progress had been made. The woman seemed determined to oppose even considering what Sophie had to say. Liping spent most of their time together avoiding her daughter’s imploring stares and keeping silent. Their time spent outside walking the gravel path around the complex had been better, but only marginally. Liping had wanted to know about their garden and what kind of plants were grown, but when the conversation took a turn for the spiritual, she’d immediately clam up.

            Where do we go from here? Sophie wondered as she exited their cabin and approached the lift. She reached for the handle before realizing that the rain and wind would make the ride too hazardous to attempt. High in the air, the metal benches swayed and wobbled on the cable like clothespins in a storm. Sighing, she pulled on her raincoat’s hood and set off up the path on foot.

            Her mind returned to the problems waiting at the top of the peak as she dodged a muddy puddle. What if she wasn’t able to convince her mother of the truth? When was enough enough, and what happened then? How much patience was to be shown to the unrighteous?

            Sophie sighed, making a mental note to ask her father what he thought as soon as she had the chance. In the meantime, she would just have to keep at it, regardless of how little an effect any of it seemed to be having. Sophie closed her eyes and let the path guide her as it always did. An occasional droplet swept under the rim of her hood, pushed by a rouge breeze onto her face. She let it sit there, then slide slowly to the point of her chin.

            As she walked, Sophie felt the blood begin to flow, the air pulsing in and through her body, moving it, healing it, speaking to it. She smiled, glad for the rain and wind that had forced this journey on foot. And journey it was. It took her nearly two hours to reach the summit.

            As Sophie rounded the final turn, she heard something that stopped her in her footsteps. There were men’s voices, but voices unlike any she had heard in many, many years. They were the voices of anger. Hostility. The men were arguing. Sophie raced ahead towards the Center, panic flooding her veins.

***

            Jack stood shirtless in the grass clearing in front of the Welcome Center. His right arm was outstretched, and he was pointing accusingly at the man on the porch.

            “I am sick and tired of your mouth!” he yelled, staggering back and forth. An empty brown bottle lay at his feet.

            “Oh, control yourself before you do something foolish, you silly boy,” Harold said dismissively, waving Jack off with the back of his hand. He stood on the front porch eyeing him with a look equal parts pity and disgust.

            “You think–You think you’re so much better than all of us. So much... smarter. But I got news for you. I had buddies back in Iraq that could run–run circles around you! I mean, what did you ever do? Huh? You ever fight in a war? Do anything useful?”

            “Well, for starters, I wrote four books that redefined my field in theo–“

            “Books! Big deal! Who gives about some books. Whoop-de-doo, I can write a book, look at me,” Jack stuck his tongue from the side of his mouth and pretended to scribble something on the palm of his hand. “Any ape with half a brain cat sit down and write a few words. Give me a break!” Jack spit at the steps of the porch and Harold stepped back with a wounded glare.

            “We’re all apes, you pathetic drunk. Though some of us are clearly less evolved than others...” Harold sniveled. He held his head higher and straightened his shirt, clearly gratified by his own cleverness.

            Jack’s movements were surprisingly quick. In two great lunges he had cleared the grassy space and was on the step right beneath Harold. He wound back his arm and struck out with incredible power and speed. Harold took the blow solidly in his jaw and spun. His body crashed onto the ground and he didn’t move.

            “That’ll teach you to mouth off,” Jack chuckled as he recovered his balance and wandered off behind the building.

            Sophie, still standing at the foot of the path, could barely register the confrontation that escalated so quickly to violence. Had it even been real? Sophie tried to shake the hallucination away, but Harold’s motionless body remained.

Sophie leapt into action, hurtling across the lawn and up the steps. She crouched beside the man crumpled on the wooden deck. Daniel stood behind the glass doors inside the lobby, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the scene before him. He slowly pushed open the doors and peeked out.

            “What... was... that?” He asked, his voice suddenly that of a terrified prepubescent.

            “Well, Daniel, you just saw your first fight,” Sophie said. “Now go get Mom.”

***

            Naomi stepped from the back room with a look of astonishment.

            “What? Are you serious?” She gasped, removing her blue coat and rolling up her sleeves. She stopped for a moment to gather the medical kit from a cabinet behind the front desk. She recalled that she’d initially argued against the need for first aid supplies in the center. She was glad the branch had made it mandatory. Only one week since their guests had arrived and already she’d used it twice! Simply amazing.

            Harold was just coming to as she arrived on the front steps of the center. The left side of his face was bright red and beginning to swell.

            “Open your mouth,” Naomi said, looking for loose or missing teeth. “Your gums are bleeding a little but you’ll be ok. Let’s get some ice on that face.”

            Naomi led the man gingerly into the lobby and then to his room.

            “I hope that idiot gets what’s coming to him,” Harold grumbled as he eased into a recliner. “No excuse for behavior of that kind.”

            Naomi was silent as she checked Harold’s head, eyes, and neck for injuries. She held a pen flashlight in her lips as her fingers picked and prodded.

            “So you’re the resident doctor, eh?” Harold asked.

            “No, but I went to nursing school a long time ago. Never thought I’d use my skills here, though.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you’re here, with lunatics like that roaming around.”

            “Why did he hit you?” Naomi asked as she clicked off the penlight and slid it into her pocket.

            “I haven’t the faintest. Ask him!”

            “You seem like a smart man, that’s why I’m asking you.”

            “Well...” Harold scoffed, for once out of words. “...He was drinking.”

            “Were you drinking with him?”

            “I don’t see how that could possibly be relevant. Let’s not forget who the culprit is here,” Harold shouted. “I can handle my liquor.”

            “Right, whatever you say.” Naomi stuffed the items back in the tin kit and headed for the door.

            “That man out there–he should be punished! At least locked away in a cell someplace!” Harold demanded. Naomi stopped.

            She turned slowly, considering what kind of reprimand was appropriate for this man that she was finding increasingly difficult to like. She knew it probably wasn’t her place to give him the tongue-lashing he deserved, but it was tempting. It would probably be best to leave it all for Charlie to deal with later.

            “Harold, I know you don’t understand this place, and I know you don’t believe much of what my husband’s told you over the last week. And if you never accept it, well, that’s your choice and your business. But for the sake of your own health, you need to stop living as if it were the past. You need to understand that you have new kidneys and a new liver, and they aren’t used to the kind of alcohol consumption you exposed them to in the past.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harold growled.

            “You said you could handle your liquor. But that was your old body. You had a resistance to it. But not now, not here.”

            “Ah, old body new body, resurrections and such. Another one drinking the kool aid,“

            “Harold, you need to stop mouthing off and start listening. And start making changes. It’s for your own sake. Your life is on the line.” Naomi could feel the blood rising to her cheeks, the tension in her shoulders and fists ballooning as if her body were in a vise. She held it in and took a deep breath. Love never fails, she told herself. Walk away.

            She did.

            Charlie was walking towards her in the hallway when she left Harold’s room.

            “Is he alright?” Charlie said, worry etched into his features.

            “Oh, he’s fine. Maybe Jack should’ve swung a bit harder.”

            Charlie looked dumbfounded and reached for his wife’s shoulder.

            “Not now Charlie,” she said, shaking him off. “You go talk to him. I’ve had my Harold dosage for the day. I’ve got to get back to Adrina,” she said. She disappeared down the hallway and into another doorway, leaving Charlie alone outside Harold’s closed door.

***

            Jack sat at the end of the long wooden pier, his feet dipped in the cool lake water. He felt its ebb and flow tugging gently at the hair of his legs, lulling him softly to a safe place. A small school of trout wagged their bodies and darted in circles around his feet. Their scales were glassy and ticklish. Jack masked his giggle with a cough and turned to look. But the nearest souls were miles away.

            Jack had wandered off the premises after the scuffle. The ski lift had been running and so he’d hopped on one of the benches. It was a long ride downhill and he was glad he hadn’t taken the trail. The path below him meandered aimlessly through the valley until it finally collided with an enormous lake at the mountain’s base.

            The day had cleared and the sun was out and the lake called his name. The others were still on the peak, no doubt dealing with the aftermath of his altercation with Harold. Jack grinned. It had felt good, watching him hit the deck like that. One shot, lights out. And stay down. It had been even easier than he’d imagined. Probably the first fight of the man’s pathetic little life. Then again, with a mouth like his, maybe not. Maybe he was used to absorbing punches with that pretentious little face.

            Whatever. Jack hadn’t hit him that hard. Had Jack been sober it would’ve been a different story. Or maybe if he actually hated the guy. But Jack had just wanted to shut him up, teach him to keep his lip in check. Jack didn’t have patience for that kind of stuff. No one talked to Jack like that. No one.

            Ronnie K. had had a mouth on him, too. Always making cracks about the other guys, stupid jokes and nicknames, even during firefights. No one liked him much. But then, when the jokes stopped, they all kind of missed it. Ronnie K. was never the same after the Humvee accident. The driver had had one too many drinks and hit an embankment. Humvees were built to withstand anything, but the same could not be said for the soldiers inside. It was a stupid way to get hurt. Any injury was bad, but losing both your arms in a drunk driving accident? Pointless. Talk about getting the rug pulled from under your feet.

            Ronnie was stitched up and shipped home within a week. The last time Jack saw him, he was a scarcely a shadow of his former self: a sad, sallow, unshaven man sitting in a loose hospital gown in a wheelchair staring blankly into his lap, two bandaged white stubs jutting from his torso. Jack had made a joke, something to keep it light, something Ronnie himself would’ve said just days before, and had regretted it.

            So many good men ended up that way. Whoever had said war was like a meat grinder hit it right on the head. No matter how tough you were, when it was through with you you’d never be the same. Solid, strong boys went in and got ground down, mixed up, and spat back out. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. That’s just the way it was.

            Jack thought back to the war and wondered where all those men were now. Ronnie K. Where was he now? And where was Jack? Lolling on a lake on some mountain way out in the boonies with nothing but grass and trees and fish, like being stuck in some painting from a Kleenex box.

            Maybe it was good luck. Or maybe it was just a pretty rug about to be pulled from under his feet. Jack knew the world was full of ‘em. Everyone had an agenda. Jack pulled his legs from the water and watched the fish scramble for some new point of interest.

            So how did they do it? How did they get his legs back on?

            There’d been a lot of talk from their hosts in the last week, but Jack hadn’t paid much attention to it. These people seemed to believe that this was some sort of pseudo-heaven where folks got a second chance, but the facts just didn’t add up. First of all, it was too incredible to even be remotely true. Secondly, why here? Why was he in these mountains instead of back home in Montana? Where was his family? And who were all these strangers?

            Jack had been tempted to ask Daniel some of these questions in the last few days but had resisted the urge. He didn’t want them in his head. Not just yet. Keep gathering intel, he’d kept telling himself. Play it straight till you know their hand. Still, they didn’t seem like bad people. Just naïve. Which, as Jack had learned, was sometimes just as bad. He needed to stay sharp.

            But at the moment that was easier said that done. He could still feel the buzz. Some brandy. He wondered what the alcohol content had been. It hadn’t tasted very strong, but it hadn’t taken much to do the trick. Not much at all. On his way down the slope Jack had lost it a few times from the lift. It had been strangely fascinating, watching the stream of vomit disintegrate and shower onto the green pines far below as his head spun.

            And now the headache was coming.

            At least the sun felt good beating down on his back. Jack laid down on the wooden pier, letting his body stretch out under a blanket of golden light.

            If nothing else, Jack had to at least admit one thing: this was the prettiest rug of them all.