It was the first time Harold had ever felt out
of place in a room full of books. He admired the architecture, the well angled
shelves cleverly placed to maximize the use of natural light filtering in
through the yellowed windows. The spiral staircase down the center of the
building was a nice touch, too. Of course, the exotic, olive-skinned librarian
hadn’t hurt, either. Kiana. A pretty name.
So
the problem wasn’t with the place itself. It was Harold. He wore a bulky pack
on his shoulders and muddy, loosely laced sneakers on his feet. He hadn’t
showered in a day and a half, and the beard growth spurting from his chin and
cheeks made him feel more out of place than a beggar in Albert Hall. A few of
the library’s guests looked up from their scattered positions at tables, along
shelves, on benches. Most smiled. One even nodded. Harold returned the gesture
and skittered up the staircase.
As
Harold enter the second level of the sprawling rows of books, he sorely wished
he’d set a later time with Jack. One hour–no, only fifty minutes now!–was not
nearly enough. The sheer vastness of the library’s collection fascinated him.
He had expected a meager selection, something hand-picked by whatever shadowy
figures were pulling strings behind the curtain. This, though. This was
impressive.
He
noticed the Sciences section. He felt
his feet pulling him in its direction and fought the urge. No. Not now. If he started now he’d never leave, and time was
marching away from him steadily with each second. He pressed on.
History. Oh, that would be an
interesting one, too. Harold allowed himself a casual stroll down the aisle,
glancing at the sub-sections marked by thick paper cards jutting from between
the books. Post-Arm, read one of the
cards. Harold wondered what ‘Arm’ stood for, and why it occupied such a
significant section of the shelf. An arrow pointed away from it towards the
right end of the shelf. The first three books on this end had a similar design
to them. They were hardcovers, with titles embossed in silver foil into their
spines: NE 1-49. NE 50-99. NE 100-149. To
the right of these three books, a smaller divider had been added: Topical Reference.
Harold
noticed that many of the other sections were organized similarly. On the left
side of the shelf, volumes covered fifty-year increments. On the right side,
other volumes covered historical events by topic. Harold assumed that the
chronological volumes would probably cover the broader, more important
historical events, while the topical books would delve into the specifics.
He
tugged one of the volumes from the shelf, European
Cities. He fanned through the pages. C.
Cal. Calleen. Calmet. Calvert. Cambert.
Cambrine. Camcolt. Camcorde.
Harold stopped, ran his finger back along the index of names. No
Cambridge. Harold could feel an unsettling sensation in the pit of his stomach.
He stepped back, taking in a wider view of the shelf. He slid the book back
between the others and reached for another, its apparent counterpart in the Pre-Arm section.
Cambridge. Cambridge University. So it
did exist in these books! Pulse quickening, Harold slumped over and drank in
the words on the page.
The city of Cambridge, home to the
once-prominent Cambridge University, was located in the county town of
Cambridgeshire, Old England. It was situated on the River Cam, 50 miles north
of London. A final government census taken in 2019 showed a population of
157,992 souls (26,322 being students). Cambridge is believed to have been a
settlement in ancient Roman times, though its history traces back to the Viking
era, where it once served as an important trading center…
Harold
grumbled impatiently, scanning farther down the page. Then his eyes caught it.
He swallowed hard. He blinked, hoping the words might somehow rearrange
themselves on the page. There, several paragraphs down, was the subheading
Harold had feared he might find.
Destruction of Cambridge
Cambridge, particularly its university campuses, were
areas of intense fighting during the Great Tribulation. With the passage of the
initial anti-religious sanctions by the United Nations, the small city became a
target of insurgent Islamic and Christian violence. The first building to
sustain serious damage was the Cambridge University Library, which was burned
to the ground by a coalition of Christian extremists from a neighboring town.
Two of the members of the coalition were killed by university staff.
Other university properties, such as the high-tech
business cluster known as Silicon Fen, Addenbrooke’s, and the Downing Site
experienced similar instances of violence, often between students and student
bodies claiming to be Atheist, Christian, and Muslim. The death toll resulting
from these clashes is still unknown.
Eventually, Cambridge University and much of the
surrounding city’s buildings were destroyed in a sulfur firestorm that ravaged
various parts of England during Armageddon…
Harold lowered the book slowly, scarcely able to comprehend the
words that bled from the page. The unsettling roiling in his stomach was now a
ball of icy lightning, sending shivers though his spine and making his toes and
fingers cold. He felt like his limbs had been sleeping and now the blood was
flowing back, tingling and pricking and biting beneath his pallid skin.
Armageddon. So that’s what they called
it. They believed this Armageddon had been the bringer of paradise and they
believed it was an act of God. But what had really happened? Utopias didn’t
exist. Whatever this was, it had to have an explanation, and Harold was willing
to put money on the fact that something sinister was afoot. It would only be a
matter of finding the cracks in the facade. You just had to know where to look.
Every
society, regime, town, country, etc., had a leader. Someone who called the
shots. It was this leader (or those directly under them) who pulled the strings
and made the decisions. So who was in charge here? Harold hadn’t explored much
of the town on his own feet, but from his spot on the hill his binoculars had
revealed nothing that looked like a government building. No tall, imposing
structures with waving flags or political insignias. No signs or posters
spouting propaganda. Not even a monument of a founding father.
G
is for Government. Harold ran his
index finger along the Pre-Arm books, locating the correct volume and flipping
frantically through its pages. Government.
The authoritative management and control exercised over
the actions of citizens in communities, societies, and states. Also, the
person, body of persons, or the organizations constituting the governing
authority.
Sure, whatever, thought
Harold. It was a standard textbook definition anyone could agree with. He
continued down the page. The first subheading caught his eye:
Theocratic Government
Unlike the human governments established and ruled by
imperfect humans in the Old World, the New World is ruled by the spirit
creature Jesus Christ, who along with his close associates and spirit-anointed
144,000, manages the Earthly affairs of God’s Kingdom from a heavenly abode.
Under theocratic rule, humans live in peaceful, paradisaic conditions, enjoying
harmony among their races and within the natural plant and animal habitat as
never before experienced under previous human rule. Theocratic rule by the
messianic kingdom has also resulted in the following...
Harold shut the book and
jammed in back into its nook on the shelf. His mind was reeling, drowning in
the choppy seas of thoughts grey and turbulent. No. It simply could not be. Someone had written these
books. Someone with great influence... great power... great wealth.
A religious dystopia? Harold
thought back to books he’d read in primary school: evil societies dreamed up by
Orwell and Huxley and Bradbury. Paradise on the surface, with war and famine
lurking somewhere beneath. Peace for the ruling upper class, chaos for everyone
else.
But then why did the
government hide? Why mask itself in all this theocracy business? And where
could he find proof? Harold rubbed the stubble on his chin with the back of his
hand. He glanced suddenly at his wrist. Where had the time gone! Had he really
been here an hour? Harold hefted his pack back on his shoulders and hurried
down the spiral staircase and out of the front door.
***
Jack
held the delicate glass sphere in his hands, turning it over gently to examine
the ornate painting inside. He’d seen something like it once, back in Iraq, but
this was of a much higher quality. This one was Chinese, and the painting
depicted a small child riding through a bamboo forest on the back of a smiling
panda. Jack smiled, too. His mind went suddenly back to the Lewis center on the
mountain, the quiet Chinese woman who had spoken to him only occasionally. He
wondered if she’d ever seen a painted bottle like this.
The
vendor smiled up at him politely, waiting for him to speak.
“How
much?” Jack finally asked. The woman squinted as if the question didn’t make
sense.
“Our
whole family does these paintings, we come here to trade for food and supplies.
What wares have you brought to trade?” She asked. Jack guessed her age at
probably twenty-one. She had a small frame, cropped black hair, and wide,
beautiful eyes. Her English was perfect.
“Trade?”
Jack asked.
“Right,
trade. We usually only do goodstrades, though.”
“Goodstrades?
Sorry, I’m not from around here.”
“Oh.
You know, trades for goods. Some do servicetrades, they’ll come and help you
build something on your house or install those new pipe systems or solar
panels, but our family is pretty good at doing that ourselves. So we usually
just do goodstrades.”
“Ah,
I get it. Interesting,” Jack said. “So everyone here just trades?”
“Um,
yeah. You must be from really far
away, brother. I thought this is how we were doing this everywhere. Guess not,”
the girl smiled. Jack smiled back but felt awkward. He set the sphere down
carefully and nodded in appreciation.
“Sorry,
I’ve got nothing you’d want. Maybe next time, though, These are really
something.”
Still
smiling, the girl lifted the sphere from the table and placed it back in Jack’s
hands. “My gift. Don’t worry about the trade.”
“No,
no, I couldn’t accept that,” Jack said, handing it back.
“Please.
Take it. We have more than we need and you look like you’ve come a long way.
Think of it as a welcome present.”
Jack
stood there, towering over the small woman, stunned and speechless.
“Thanks,”
he finally managed.
“You’re
welcome. See you in the next garden,” she said, tilting her head to one side.
Jack mimicked the gesture.
“See
you in the next garden,” he repeated.
Jack
wrapped the glass sphere carefully in one of his flannel shirts, tying the sleeves
together to keep it safe and snug in his pack. He glanced at his watch. Already
twenty-five minutes gone. He scolded himself for allowing the distraction and
reviewed the mental checklist of items they needed. Determined, he returned to the
main aisle through the bazaar, scanning the stalls for food.
It
was then, out of the corner of his eye, that he saw something that made his
heart nearly stop. He turned and watched intently, trying to see past a sea of
moving heads. He gasped. There, just beyond the edge of the market where he and
Harold had been standing moments ago, stood Charlie and his son, Daniel.
They
were looking right at Jack, and pointing.
Jack
turned on his heel, ducking through carts and stalls as he darted for the other
end of the market. He heard his boots crash into something beneath him that
sounded like pottery, heard the scream of one of the patrons. Don’t stop, Jack thought. Don’t look back. Just keep going.
Jack leaped over a table of fruit. Melons exploded as they hit the
ground, sending their wet stickiness into the air and against the shoppers’
clothes. More screams. Shocked faces watched as he passed. Finally Jack came to
the barrier, a simple, waist-high wooden fence that separated the bazaar from
the forest boundary. Jack reached out his arm, planting it on one of the fence
posts as he threw his legs up and over the rail.
Jack’s
boots landed in the soft grass. Only a few more yards. Jack’s legs pumped hard.
The tree line raced forward to meet him. Jack turned to look back, just this
once, just to see if the men had managed to follow him. And there, standing on
the other side of the rail, stood the young Chinese woman with the glass
spheres. Her eyes didn’t understand. She was frowning.
As
Jack plunged into the forest, he failed to see the tall man standing just to
the left of one of the wooden fence posts. He wore a long dark coat and a hat
which he removed quietly to smooth back his slicked red hair. He watched carefully
as Jack bounded away and was quickly swallowed up in the heavy thicket of a
damp, looming forest.
***
Daniel
was sure it had been him. He could swear by it. It had only been an instant–a
ghost of a face in a crowd of heads–but Daniel had seen him. He’d seen Jack.
But then the face was gone.
“Are
you sure?” Charlie asked as he followed his son around the wooden fence and
through the entrance into the bazaar.
“Yes.
And I’m sure he saw me. Then he turned and ran.”
Daniel
worked his way through the stalls, back to the place he’d seen Jack. Yes, this
was right where Jack had been standing. To his right had been the woven
baskets, ceramics on the left. This was it.
“I
think he ran this way,” Daniel said, pointing straight through the crowd.
“Think?
Didn’t you see him?” Charlie said, sounding irritated.
“Well
I saw his face but there were too many people. I couldn’t see which direction
he left in.” When Jack had turned his head had blended instantly into the crowd
of colorful headwear and smiling faces. It had been impossible to determine how
he’d moved. Suddenly though, Daniel realized it wasn’t necessary.
“Look!”
he said, patting his father’s arm with the back of one hand and motioning ahead
and to their left. Ten yards in front of them, a man and a woman gathered
oranges from the ground into a purple bushel. Behind them, a man appeared to be
holding shards of broken pottery.
“Let’s
go talk to them,” Charlie said.
Daniel
and Charlie moved through the crowd, which was growing by the minute as vendors
moved into their stalls, pulling large carts covered in waxed canvas and
neoprene tarps. They both realized that it would be impossible to recover
Jack’s trail if they didn’t work quickly.
“Excuse
me,” Daniel said, bending down to help the man recover a squashed plum from the
ground. The man turned slowly. He was frowning.
“Yes?”
“I’m
sorry to bother you, but did a man just come through here? Probably carrying a
backpack, about this tall?” Daniel asked, raising his hand slightly above his
own height.
“You
mean run through here? Yes. Knocked
most of our fruit right onto the ground, too. He a friend of yours?”
“Sort
of.”
“Well
when you see him tell him to be more cautious next time. We just lost fruit,
but the Benzes had some of their ceramics knocked over. They only brought a
few, you see?”
Daniel
glanced over at the next stall, where a doleful man swept fragments of broken
vases into a paper bag. Daniel was overcome by a wave of guilt.
“I’m
truly sorry about that. I wish we had something to offer you, but we’ve left
our house in such a rush, and–“
“It’s
fine, it’s fine. It shouldn’t come from you anyways. What was he running from?”
The man asked, tossing a shard of fruit into a wastebasket and wiping his hands
with a towel looped through his belt.
“We’re
not sure, either. It’s kind of a long story, but basically–“ Daniel paused as a
hand gripped his shoulder. He turned to see his father’s face.
“We’re
sorry about the fruit, brother, but we’re in quite a hurry,” Charlie said as he
tugged on his son’s arm.
“Wait,”
Daniel said, pulling away. “Was he alone when you saw him?” Daniel asked the
fruit vendor. The man shrugged.
“I
only saw him, yeah. But it was fast. He ran like he was scared for his life.”
“And
he ran that way?” Daniel asked.
“Yeah,
but I didn’t watch him for long. He was just here one instant and gone the
next. Maybe you should talk to the folks over there.”
“We
will,” Daniel said. “Thank you so much.”
Charlie
considered something for a second, then pulled a notepad from his pack. He
scribbled a few numbers and words on a small sheet of paper and handed it to
the vendor. “My name’s Charlie Lewis and this is my son, Daniel. We’ve got a
center up on the hill to the east. If you’re ever in the area please stop by.
We’re very sorry about all this.”
The
man took the paper and nodded.
“I’ll
bet he headed back to the forest,” Daniel whispered to his father when they’d
taken a few more steps.
“What
is going through that boy’s mind?” Charlie groaned as he scanned the crowded
bazaar.
“If
we talk to all the vendors it’s going to take time. I say we just go check out
the woods and see if we can find clues. Maybe footprints or something. The
grass should still have dew on it this early in the morning,” Daniel offered.
His father looked at him in silence for a few long moments.
“Okay,”
Charlie finally said. “That’s a good idea.”
The
two turned back and made their way to the entrance of the bazaar. There was so
much to look at here, many of them things that Daniel had never seen before.
Mechanical things that could do tasks. Chairs that folded into beds. Pretty
things. Artwork. Sculptures. Instruments. Things to eat. A thousand sights,
smells, and sounds to vie for his attention. But now was not the time. They
needed to find Jack and Harold.
***
Harold
checked his watch for the fourth time. He had been explicit in his instructions
to Jack. He was to get the food and get out. There had been no time to spare.
The first stirrings of anxiety came over him. Harold turned to survey the two
paths that intersected at the point where he stood. He watched the faces of
strangers coming and going and wondered if some of the eyes were watching him
back.
The
crowd had grown considerably since Harold and Jack had first arrived in the
small town. Many of the people were funneling excitedly into the bazaar.
Perhaps that was it, then. Perhaps Jack was caught in the human traffic. Harold
rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and grumbled. This was not a time to
be late.
Just
how much time they actually had Harold could only guess. Had a warrant been put
out for their arrest? Had secret words been whispered into telephone receivers
offering a bounty for their capture? Might the doors to one of these buildings
open up at any moment, spouting troops of guards sent to haul the fugitives
away into the mysterious bowels of this dystopia? Harold’s mind reeled with
paranoia. His eyes narrowed as they roved about the walls, the cafe patrons,
and the sea of heads swirling amidst the bazaar.
Hurry, Jack. Please hurry.
But
with each passing moment, Harold’s discomfort and fear edged towards fury.
Prickly green tension swapped for a lava red rage. For in his anger was power,
and in his power was a sense of control.
Then
again, maybe Jack had simply been a traitor waiting for the moment to spring.
Hadn’t there been signs all along? The conspicuous denial of Harold’s claims of
conspiracy? The gutless defense of their surroundings? Some soldier! So that
was it, then. Harold was on his own.
Not
that it’d be any great loss. Harold had his own supplies–food tins, a sleeping
bag, a flashlight, and the map. He’d be fine on his own; He didn’t need Jack to
survive. He’d been the one to plan the excursion in the first place. Harold
spat vehemently onto the dirt road, pushing a small brown plume of dust into
the air at his feet.
One
last glance into the crowded bazaar...
And
there, between intersecting walls of bodies and clothing, Harold thought he saw
something. He stepped closer to the fence, one, two. Leaned his head forward,
peering at the faces. The crowd split for an instant. It was long enough.
There, standing not forty yards ahead, was Charlie and his son.
Harold
staggered back. Cold fear washed over his fiery anger, putting it out. He moved
quickly back along the path he’d come when they first entered the town. Don’t run, Harold told himself. That will only cause alarm. Move quickly, move quickly, get to the
trees!
Harold’s
feet moved with controlled speed as the tree line crept ever forward. A young
couple converged on his path from a road to the left. In one swift, unthinking
moment Harold looked, smiled, nodded. The couple greeted him back. But there
was something odd about the man’s look as he tilted his head and grinned.
Something that covered Harold in a sheet of icy terror.
Harold
pushed the feeling away and continued walking, quickening his pace ever so
slightly as he passed. Behind him, he could hear their heels scrape against the
dirt road as they stopped. They were turning now, and he could feel their gaze
burning into the back of his neck.
Then
the man’s voice reached over Harold’s shoulder, stopping him cold.
“Harold?”
Harold
froze. A single word. But it was an iron fist that held him in an unyielding
grip.
“E-excuse
me?” He muttered without turning to look.
“Harold?
Harold Dawson?”
“Me?”
Harold’s voice trembled. The discomfort was physically painful.
“Yes,
are you Harold?”
Harold’s
mind raced. There was no aggression in the voice, but he didn’t dare to turn
and look. He struggled to recall the faces he’d just seen, for the briefest
instant. How did they know them? Had they met?
“I’m
sorry,” he mumbled. The words were nearly incoherent. “I think you have me
mistaken for someone else.”
“Oh,”
said the voice. He sounded disappointed. “Sorry, then.”
“Yes.
No problem. I’ll be seeing you,” Harold said, managing to turn slightly back to
the couple. They could only glance his profile as he nodded.
Harold
heard low whispers between the couple as the trees came closer and closer. He
waited, knowing at any moment they would come after him. How did they know him!
Harold imagined sirens wailing his name into the sky, helicopters shining great
milky blue beams of light into the canopy, hunting down the fugitive that had
been seen in Clive!
Harold
stormed his way into the thicket, hearing twigs and branches snap as he charged
at the darkness, a great unstoppable machine. Harold cursed his fate and ran.
It was all he could do. He didn’t look back. He ran with a speed that surprised
himself, he ran with a swiftness he hadn’t felt in decades.
Thoughts
and fears blurred into the background as Harold leapt over logs and rocks and
dodged beneath branches and leaves. But Harold missed the vine. It had grown
between two trees at waist-height, and it snagged on his thigh as he dashed
past. The thorny vine snapped apart and whipped against Harold’s leg, biting
past the fabric of his pants and into the flesh of his legs. Harold howled in
pain and tumbled into the dirt. He reached down frantically, clawing at the
vines with his hands. He tried to pull them from his leg, slashing the skin of
his palms and wrists.
Harold
cursed in fear and pain. Beads of blood swelled and trickled from his wounds.
He clasped his hands together and held them to his chest. He tore a sleeve from
his shirt and wrapped it around his palms. The adrenaline was gone now. Harold
glanced around, trying to get his bearings. The town and the clearing and the
bazaar were nowhere to be seen. There were no paths or trails. Harold had run
deep into the woods and was lost.
The
forest around Harold was thick and full. In every direction, trees sprouted
endlessly from an earth blanketed in mulch. There was no uphill or downhill.
The ground was flat. Harold spun, forgetting which direction he’d been running
from or to. The scenery in every direction looked the same. Harold felt a cold
droplet on his face and looked up. The sky darkened and groaned.
Against
all reason, Harold slogged still further on. His hands and leg throbbed with
pain. His head felt light and dizzy. His feet dragged across the moldered
forest floor. In his disoriented and battered state, Harold failed to note the
curious brown thread poking from beneath a layer of faded red and brown leaves.
It was strung from the base of one tree to the dead stump of another, not ten
feet away. Dazed and winded, Harold stepped right into it.
There
was a deafening crack from somewhere high above as a branch gave way, sending a
shower of dead leaves into the air like birds taking flight. A net filled with
rocks dropped from somewhere behind him, and Harold watched in bewilderment as
the leaves on the forest floor erupted into the air as a rope twanged taut like
a flexed muscle.
The
rope cinched with a snap around Harold’s ankle and yanked his fee from under
him, slamming his body onto the ground. It dragged him over a tangle of sticks
and rocks and dirt and leaves. Harold’s arms flailed, desperate for purchase.
He scrambled with bandaged hands at trees and weeds as they slid past, but he
was moving too fast. Something rushed up to meet him, something dark and heavy,
and there was a sharp pain in his head, and then darkness. Only darkness.
