5 Years After Read online

  Five Years After

  by

  Richard Correll

  Copyright 2016

  Richard Correll, All rights reserved.

  Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com http://www.eBookIt.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2303-6

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THIN LINES

  CHAINS OF COMMAND

  ARMAGEDDON

  CHRYSALIS

  REDZONE

  MANIFESTO

  THE BAD ONES

  LINEAGE (Just another day)

  REQUIEM

  Maps, acknowledgements and authors’ notes available at www.5YearsAfter.com.

  THIN LINES

  Maggie’s mouth was a barely discernible line as she let her eyes look up to the clear blue sky. It was one of those days where the heat seemed to push down on the back of your neck and squeeze the life from your veins. The edges of buildings, rusting billboards and cars seemed to be so clearly defined under the unblinking eye of the sun. She swallowed slowly as the heat subsided with a sudden cool breeze that passed as quickly as it came. Some objects shimmered slightly in the returning heat like they were being seen through cellophane. A trickle of sweat meandered down the side of her face. She erased it from her already moist skin with a dab of her fingertip.

  The scene before her could almost have been a photograph in someone else’s life. If you think about it, she sighed. Maybe that’s the truth. This is someone else’s life or a dream. All the past five years somehow were compressed into a single night. How time can do that is unimportant. You’ll wake up in your parent’s house in Baltimore. Perhaps you’re asleep in the backseat of their car on a long road trip. Maybe you’ll blink your eyes at the rejuvenating sunshine through your window and reflect on what your mind had just created. The thought lingered for a moment as she tilted her head slightly to get the stiffness out of her neck. Maybe that was it. You’ll just wake up and drink in a new day. You, Maggie Hunter are just dreaming all of this. In reality, you’re just 11 years old and the world is right as rain.

  Am I dreaming? Might as well find out, she tore her eyes from the blue canvas and reached for her knife. Maggie placed the blade on her lap and rolled up her right sleeve to expose her arm and four vertical scars, each cut between her forearm and elbow. She picked up the knife and inhaled slowly as the line on her mouth rippled and came alive. Maggie could taste the anticipation of the next moment. The point of the blade dug into her skin and pierced it. She exhaled and grit her teeth. Thick, warm blood oozed from the track of the knife and flooded her skin. Her green eyes became electric from the pain. Do you feel it?

  The blood followed an imperfect line and then dripped from her arm in thick droplets that spattered the floor of the bus. One more drop in a sea of blood won’t matter, she observed coldly. The knife had crossed the four equal lines to make a roman numeral five. I’m just marking time. She watched the blood trickle off her skin to the floor with the curious look of a child watching a captured creature in a glass jar. Do you feel it? Pain, this is real.

  Sorry Alice, you’re not in Wonderland. This is the real world. The knife returned to her belt and Maggie glanced out the window. After a moment, she noticed part of the photograph had come alive. Maggie tapped her radio.

  “This is 427 and Dundas.” Maggie kept her voice calm as her heart had just started beating faster. “I have three hostiles approaching my position.”

  “Say again, 427 and Dundas?”

  “Three hostiles,” Maggie felt her breathing pick up speed now. Easy, she tried to slow herself down as she repeated: “Confirmed, three hostiles approaching 427 and Dundas.”

  “Very well,” The voice replied. “Implement standard procedure.”

  “Yes sir, standard procedure.” She picked up her C7A2 and flicked off the safety. It was an assault rifle by design but one of the add-ons was a sniper scope that made for some very accurate targeting. Maggie poked the barrel of the rifle out of her bus. It was parked on the northbound lanes of the empty 427 on the bridge overlooking Dundas in Etobicoke.

  Maggie took a deep breath and felt her heart thumping in her ear drums. What is wrong with you? She sighted the first slow moving mannequin-like figure. He wore some kind of orange carpenter’s bib with a hardware store logo on it. His jeans were well worn and frayed at the cuffs. The untied laces of his work boots splayed around his feet with each step. The left side of his face was tattered by three bite marks. One had ripped the flesh of his ear cleanly from his scalp. Another had torn away the puffy skin under his eye socket. You’ve seen this before, what’s the problem? Maggie could feel her exasperation growing along with her anxiety.

  She slowly began the ritual of sighting and preparing to fire. It started with a careful control of breathing and letting the world decelerate around you. Maggie’s finger caressed the cool metal of the trigger ever so slightly. She always waited until they got to some concrete barricades lying in the middle of Dundas. They were knee-high, just enough to be an obstruction. They always paused, awaiting instinct to dictate the next move. All it took was a second. That would be long enough. Gently, she squeezed the trigger. That was the difference between a seasoned grunt and a newbie, she would tell the rookies. They pull the trigger. We squeeze. One way sprays bullets we can’t afford to waste all over the goddamn place. The way we do it launches a single, perfectly aimed piece of judgment day at the target.

  The man’s head jerked backwards as if he were taking a punch. The back of the head ruptured and stained the highway for several feet behind the now collapsing body. She sighted the second. It was a kid who looked about sixteen with a skater boy hoodie and a ball cap. The brown skin was pocked with flecks and smears of blood. His upper neck had a large bite wound that exposed what might be his wind pipe. Maggie felt a quiver in her fingers. Stop it! She commanded and tried to ease her breathing again and slow the world down to a killing pace. He came to the barricade and paused just as the shaking in her fingers subsided. Maggie squeezed the trigger again. The shot penetrated his skull just above the right eye. The top of his head exploded, sending the ball cap flying off the boy’s head and landing several feet away.

  The boy fell to the shimmering pavement as the wind picked up again. The ball cap rolled along the road as if it was trying to find cover, the gentle breeze urging it on.

  A sense of panic welled up quickly as she searched for figure number three. It had already climbed over the barricade and was coming closer. You have plenty of time. Maggie inhaled slowly through her nose to calm down and refocused the C7A2. It was a girl of about fourteen and Asian. Her school pack was still slung over her back. A leftover prop form a previous existence. Her white pants and blouse were stained a dried river of crimson. The mouth hung open and then snapped shut every few paces as she staggered forward. The gaze was dreamlike but unwavering. Maybe these three were here because of an errant noise from one of the buses. Maybe the wind had blown the scent of the living in their direction.

  It didn’t matter. This was as far as they’d go. Maggie’s finger compressed around the trigger for a third time, it clipped the girl’s shoulder and spun her around. She landed on her back and slowly looked around for a second. The girl’s head pivoted toward the bus and she hissed in anger at the silhouetted figure inside. With the backpack weighing her down, the girl slowly performed the careful, wooden procedure of standing up. Maggie’s lip did a sudden tremble as she re-sighted. The C7A2 was lowered for a second as she exhaled. Why am I feeling this
way? She shouldered the rifle, sighted the target and squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered the right eye and blew out the back of her head like a grenade had exploded in her brain. The girl had been lifeless for some time. Now it was without movement.

  “Hostiles terminated.” Maggie reported in a whisper as she scanned for further movement.

  “Very well,” The voice on the other end replied. “Your relief is on the way.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?” Maggie cocked her head in a question mark. “I’m not off for a few more hours.”

  “We’re sending Abramowisz over to cover your last two hours.” The voice was a tad more professional now. Like someone important had just entered the room on their side. “You have a visitor.”

  For a moment she thought of Molly, her sister. The notion was quickly dismissed. Molly was busy preparing for her interview in the New Republic of West Virginia on 60 minutes. There’s a piece of genius. Maggie felt a smirk cross her face. While the world is ending, let’s make a new country. She double-checked her rifle for any errant shells in the chamber while slipping the safety on. Squealing brakes told her that Abramowisz had arrived. The idea of seeing Molly again would have been awesome. It would be so cool to catch up.

  They were sisters who were a little over a year apart in age. Maggie’s parents had always said that sometimes a black child was born to white parents with Scottish heritage. It had something to do with Scotland’s past. Maggie didn’t buy the explanation and couldn’t have cared less. If it was a family secret or baggage, who cares? They were family and that was it.

  Still, they got some odd looks at parent – teacher night. Molly had always said that was the way people were and you couldn’t change it. Her mom and dad always pretended not to notice. Molly actually loved her skin color. Being a Caribbean queen was a role she was meant to play as she strolled down the high school hallways making the boys look twice. For Maggie, she was the opposite, a red haired tomboy who loved to play rough. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Molly always said you have to love yourself first before finding love. Why was that so hard right now? Moisture clung to her shirt sleeve as the blood dried on her forearm in the heat. She studied her face in the reflection of the school bus window. It was thin with a nose a bit too big after being broken so many times. Her short red hair and electric green eyes that rarely blinked. Maggie had one of those wiry, athletic builds that had always surprised more than one bully with strength and speed. But all the trouble that she had gotten into many years ago was behind her now. No one seemed to give a damn who you were before five years ago. It had been a giant, cleansing fire.

  But we all got burned. Maggie summed up her thoughts and opened up the school bus door. She was suddenly aware of the stinging sensation on her forearm. Just a reminder you’re still alive.

  “Relieving you, Ma’am,” A tall, muscular man saluted lazily and smiled at her.

  “Thanks. “ Maggie shouldered her rifle and eased past the big man. When she got to the door a question popped into her head. “Do I have some kinda visitor?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” He nodded while he took a seat. “We all have to see him, he’s a shrink.”

  “Great,” She dragged the word out sarcastically as she left. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  After Maggie left, Abramowisz closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. You’ll be seeing him again today. He suppressed an urge to hyper-ventilate before slowly opening his eyes to focus his thoughts.

  Maggie was out the door and into the passenger side of the jeep without a second thought. Two gun shots to the north didn’t even make her look up. It was everyday on the containment line. The strategy was simple. When a city was lost contain the spread of those things into the suburbs. Toronto’s line was the DVP to the east, 401 to the north and 427 to the west. The wide highways offered effective kill zones for snipers in school buses, RV’s or anything else that offered an elevated firing position. The containment line, sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t and the occasional one got through. This was the way of a war that had no set lines of defense, just places that were “safer” than others.

  We were all living the same timeline now. It was translated through concise words and phrases that compressed nightmares into palatability. When IT happened I lost my father. After IT happened my sister moved in when Toronto fell.

  Maggie had only heard a 7 year old girl come out and say it: “When the dead stopped being dead I started screaming at night.” Maybe we learned this kind of compression language over time and maturity. Just another one of those adult filters we put in place to keep our darkest dreams from consuming us.

  Downsview was a quick drive up the 427 and across the 401. As Maggie watched the passing scenery with detachment she saw a squat building come closer. Must be where the shrink is, she reasoned. When the jeep stopped Maggie got out with a nod to the driver. She grabbed her gear, accepted the salute of a passing private and walked in the door.

  “Corporal Hunter,” A secretary nodded with an eye on her desk that contained a chart. “Have a seat. Dr Finerman will be with you in a moment.”

  Maggie thanked her and eased herself into a waiting room chair while an oscillating fan played over her face. Thank god I cut my hair short for the summer. She turned toward the man made breeze. Nothing made you feel shittier than long, sweaty hair on a boiler of a day.

  Maggie had a moment with her thoughts while time ticked by in the waiting room. She thought of the quiver in her fingers earlier. What was up with that? The feeling of fear at the faces she sighted through her scope. It was routine. Almost like target practice. What were you feeling?

  Fear…..

  Are you afraid of them? No, the reply instantly formed in her head. Then why did your fingers shake? What was with that slow vibration from your finger tips that seemed to burrow itself like a worm into your skin and find its’ way into your stomach. The shortness of breath was like a ghost stealing the air right out of your lungs. What the fuck was that?

  But, you’re not afraid, are you? Her head turned sideways to catch the fan as she closed her eyes. No, it’s something else. It’s like a slow cascade of emotions inside you. First, you shake. It’s like an anticipation of torture. Then, you change…..

  You change……

  You can’t wait to destroy them, that thrill of your fingers touching the trigger. No, that’s’ not the best part. Yes, when the bullet hits their bones. The head snapping back like an invisible whiplash. The ruby red cloud from the exit wound. Maggie saw herself pummeling the Asian girl with her rifle butt until the skull was a stain on the concrete. Taking the kid with the hoodie while he was still alive and burning his body as a warning to others. He’d beg you for mercy but there would be none. Just once you want to hear those things scream and scream and scream………..

  “Corporal?” The secretaries’ voice interrupted the carnage. “Did you say something?”

  “Uh, no,” Maggie was startled. “I was just singing to myself.”

  “You can go in now.” The eyes that looked at Maggie had taken on a tinge of wariness.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re probably wondering why you’re here.” When Maggie opened the door he was standing in the middle of the room with his hands by his sides. He had thick, black hair and bushy eyebrows. The doctor was five foot seven with a waist line that betrayed middle age. You are so a shrink, Maggie decided to be cautious. He smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Doctor Finerman.”

  “Please to meet you, sir.” Maggie shook his hand and made eye contact, poker face on. For fun she added: “Are you gonna make me look at inkblots?”

  “No, I’m not.” He seemed to chuckle more for Maggie’s benefit that his. “All we’re going to do is talk.”

  Maggie just met his expression with a blank face. He let the silence hang in the air while Maggie continued to look at him. Are you deciding if I’m crazy already? The thought made her even more
suspicious.

  “Why don’t you sit down and relax.” Finerman finally suggested.

  “Thank you, sir.” Maggie sat into a cloth covered chair and let her hands grip the arm rests slightly. Don’t let him see you, don’t let him in. A moment of casual alarm touched Maggie as she realized she’d left her rifle in the waiting room. Would he use that against me?

  “Look,” he held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I just want to ask some questions, alright?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever had the shakes or feelings of apprehension?” He pretended to be reading from a piece of paper but Maggie could feel him watching her.

  “Not…not that I recall sir,” Poker face on.

  “Nightmares?”

  “No sir.”

  “Heart palpitations?”

  “No,” Maggie found an edge creeping into her voice. The questions were silly, aggravating. “How about people in your unit?”

  “No!” She finally shouted. The room paused as her exclamation echoed off the walls. Maggie sat stunned by how loud her voice had been.

  “The final question,” Finerman said with a raised eyebrow and a touch of irony. “Have you ever had any unusual emotional outbursts?”

  “Look,” Maggie sighed after an embarrassing pause. “Its’ been a crazy day. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Finerman answered calmly. A second silence ensued and then he continued: “I just came back from Fanshawe College. The U of T moved their psychiatry program there after the evacuation.”

  Maggie felt her defenses drop down a bit to get a peek at what he was saying. “We wanted to move McGill there as well after Montreal fell but the Quebec Government insisted the institution be kept in the province.”

  “I guess they can be that way, sir.” It seemed like the thing to say. How the hell did she know? She was American by birth.

  “The things that I’ve described to you are called post-traumatic stress disorders.” Finerman kept his voice calm as he met her eyes. “I’ m sure you’ve heard of them.”