Dad taught his class at the university until the day before he disappeared. He would often invite me, Mom, and Austin to attend the lectures. I think he particularly enjoyed it when Mom would go, because if none of the students were up to it, she’d raise her hand and challenge him to defend whatever he said. It’s not that she disagreed with the points he was making; it was just the weird way my parents flirt.
Last year, Dad asked me to attend one lecture in particular.
“We talk a lot about the events that led up to the Final Holy War. We talk about the bombs, and the blame, but from there we tend to skip straight to the long-term repercussions, and the ways in which the war was secretly used to shape society,” Dad said. “We spend very little time talking about the immense suffering. It’s easier to just cite the statistic that over three billion were killed, than it is to dig into even one of their stories and try to understand what it was like.”
The class stayed silent.
“What year did the bombs fall?” Dad asked.
His board lit up with students eager to answer the question, but Dad didn’t call on anyone.
“You all know that the answer is 2036; so try this question: In what year did the killing end?”
Nobody was eager to take a stab at it.
“The last known death attributed to toxin poisoning was in 2047, over eleven years after the bombs fell. Granted, most deaths happened in the first five years, but for some, the suffering lasted for eleven years. Who can tell me why?”
Dad called on a young man named Eugene.
“The genetic damage was cumulative,” Eugene said. “Each particle that entered your body did a miniscule amount of damage; so if your exposure came slowly, so did death.”
“Exactly. For some, it was a long, slow march, filled with daily agony as they felt their body slowly fail. Who can tell me about the societal reaction of those who didn’t have the target gene? What did the world do to help those poor, suffering souls?”
Dad looked directly at me; so I answered.
“They turned their backs,” I said.
“Yes,” Dad replied. “People with the gene couldn’t find jobs. Why hire someone who’s going to die soon? Without work, they couldn’t feed themselves, and soon they had nowhere left to turn except into government-run areas - called Dead Zones - where they could at least eat while they waited to die. The Dead Zones developed their own culture - a culture of death.”
******
I insist that J.W. come to work with Dave and me and do some labor to repent for his behavior. He’s a hard worker and a quick study. I leave them for a while and run to the old mine. The brakes have continued to slip on the old elevator, and it’s ten meters farther down the shaft than when I left it. While I was gone, a crew started bringing equipment and supplies to pour concrete.
I look at the cement-pumping machine the crew left. The controls depend on electronics; so I use my knife to cut a couple of primary connections. They’ll need a whole new control board to make it functional again.
That might buy me a week. If I don’t get back here before they pour The Tombstone, this really will be a one-way trip.
When I get back to the barn building site, Dave looks relieved to see me.
“Jocie, there are bears in this part of the country,” he says.
“I told him to worry for the bears … not you,” J.W. adds, then smiles to show his broken tooth. “Are they just coming out of hibernation?” I ask
“It’s June. They’ve been out of hibernation for months,” Dave says.
“June? Is it always this cold here in June?” I ask.
“It didn’t used to be,” J.W. says, “It’s amazing what a couple of dozen nukes exploding on the other side of the world will do.”
Of course. The Final Holy War was just a few years ago.
I must get a blank look on my face, because Dave is about to say something, but J.W. interrupts.
“We’re done for the day,” he says. “Dave said we could have dinner with him and Elizabeth before we head off for Baltimore.”
Elizabeth feeds us something called a “chicken pot pie” and a green vegetable I’ve never seen before, that she simply refers to as “greens.”
They walk us to J.W.’s truck, which is still parked behind the house.
Elizabeth looks worried.
“I hope you’re worried for my safety, and not Jocie’s,” J.W. says.
“It’s such a dangerous place,” she replies.
“It’s not an easy life, but this area can always use hard-working young people like you two,” Dave says, and hands me a piece of paper with his name and number on it. “Call me any time, day or night.”
He turns to J.W.
“J.W., you listen to Jocie. Maybe she can help you get your head on straight.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence.
“We’re not going far without the keys,” J.W. says.
“I gave them to Jocie,” Dave replies.
“Keys?” I ask.
Oh! The metal sticks.
I dig them out of my pack and hand them to J.W. Soon we’re hurling down the road at what feels like an unsafe speed. Hover buses and tube cars don’t have the randomness of human drivers. Every time something catches his eye, I feel a slight turn of the wheel, followed by a correction to get back on course.
We say nothing to each other for at least thirty minutes, when J.W. breaks the silence.
“Jocie? Where are you going after Baltimore?” he asks.
“Home,” I reply.
“Where is that?”
“The more I see of the world, J.W., the more I think that ‘home’ isn’t a place. It’s more like a state of mind. My parents are ‘home’ anywhere that they’re together, and they rarely leave each other’s side. My friend, Zera is ‘home’ anywhere that she’s having fun, even if she and I were back to back in a fight for our lives. My brother, Austin…”
J.W. drives off the road, and I realize that he was looking at me, rather than where he’s driving.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Why were you staring at me?” I ask.
“Dave said you just appeared out of the woods. You don’t seem to be afraid of anything or anyone, and yet you seem to have forgotten that the earth is in a mild nuclear winter and don’t know what car keys are. You beat up seven good street fighters like it’s a game, and then insist on feeding me rather than sending me to jail. Wherever you’re from, I want to go there.”
“You didn’t let me finish. The people I’m talking about, J.W., they carry ‘home’ inside of themselves. We call it the Holy Spirit.”
“It figures,” he says. “If there’s anyone on the planet that can’t catch a break, it’s me.”
“If you were going to ask to travel with me, then you’re right; but I’d be happy to tell you about the Lord. Maybe you could find home inside yourself, too.”
“Where do your relatives in Baltimore live?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’d better figure something out. You can’t come into The Zone with me.
“What’s The Zone?”
“It’s short for ‘The Dead Zone.’ There’s one in most cities. It’s where everyone with the gene goes to die. It’s full of angry people who already hated each other anyway.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“The toxin affects anyone with the gene and the damage is cumulative. People who were near the bombs were dead in days. The rest of us are waiting for the wind to bring enough of it to our doorstep to finish us off. The toxin doesn’t care if you’re Muslim or Jewish or Christian. The target gene is ancient and has had thousands of years to spread around the world. The different religions represented in The Zone already blame each other for this mess; so for some of us, it’s better to die fighting than to wait for the toxin. There are murders in the street every day.”
“You have the target gene,” I say.
“Worse. I have a mutation of the gene. According to the doctors, my death will be much slower and more painful than average.”
“You look fine,” I say.
He rolls up his sleeve to reveal an open wound. There are scars where others broke out, but have healed.
“The pain on my skin isn’t that bad,” he says. “It’s the feeling that something is eating away at my insides that I hate. Every time I take a breath or a bite of food, I wonder if I’m taking in another particle that drifted in as if it has my name on it.”
“Maybe you won’t die,” I say. “I’ve heard there are some survivors.”
“Urban legends,” he says. “People in The Zone whisper about things like that all the time.
People even come to the edge of The Zone to sell things they say are miracle cures, but it’s all snake oil.”
“You don’t seem like the ‘wait-around-to-die’ type,” I say.
“You’re right. I don’t want to go like that. I have a plan.”
I reach out and touch his arm, and close my eyes.
“Lord, I ask you to bring healing to J.W. I know that there is no toxin that’s beyond Your power …”
He pulls his arm away before I can finish.
“Save it, Jocie. I’ve met Christians. There used to be one called “Father Zeke” who ran a mission on the edge of The Zone. He was always walking around and telling anyone who’d listen about Jesus. I didn’t see anyone cured by his prayers.”
“I understand,” I say. “May I start again?”
I touch his arm again, without waiting for a reply.
“Lord, this is your child, J.W., who you’ve known since before he was even born. He’s most likely going to die a miserable, painful death very soon. I pray instead that you’ll give him a peaceful death. Bring to your child a death where all he feels is Your love inside him. Teach him where home is.”
“Am I supposed to say ‘thank you’ for that?” he asks.
“Is that really the best your God can do? A peaceful death?”
“You can thank me, or not,” I say. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Keep talking to Him. If He’s not too busy, see what He can do about this.”
We reach a high point in the road, where I can see much of the city in front of me. It looks grimy. The exit we’re passing has a sign that says “Local traffic only” and there’s a police car parked across the road to ensure the sign is obeyed.
“We can’t go into that area?” I ask.
“If you have I.D. that says you live there, you can. My I.D. says I have the gene. The only place I can go in the city is The Zone.”
“What if you don’t have any I.D.?” I ask.
He looks over at me.
“Is that why you refused to talk with the police in Virginia? I guess you’re coming into The Zone with me, then. We’ll need to cover your hair. There aren’t many redheads in The Zone.”
He reaches behind my seat and brings out a hat with a triangle that must represent a prism, because a light ray enters one side and is split into colors on the other. I look at the back.
“Was she your girlfriend?” I ask.
“What? Who?”
“The girl who gave you this hat. Her name is on the back: Pink Floyd.”
He doesn’t answer, but the look on his face tells me that I’ve asked another stupid question.
We switch from one highway to another and pass dozens of exits that are all being watched by police cars, until we reach a bumpy dirt ramp where J.W. turns off. It’s not like the other exits. This one looks like it was built in a hurry. It doesn’t even have a street name, there’s just a large sign that features a human skull and the words “The Zone” in black paint. There is no police car here and I have the feeling that none would come if called.
******
We don’t enter a neighborhood with quiet streets and trees. Instead, we’re in some sort of an industrial park with warehouses. In the first block, I’m struck by the amount of trash that’s blowing around. In the next block, there are burned-out buildings. By the fifth block, I’ve seen more burned cars than I care to count.
“You said there’s a place like this in most cities?” I ask.
“Most aren’t quite like this. We’re on a big peninsula that juts out into the river. It makes it pretty easy to keep everyone with the gene contained. I imagine that once we’re all dead, they’ll just bulldoze it all and try to forget we were here.”
“Where do the people live?”
“Here’s a row of gene apartments now,” he says.
“Those are just big metal boxes.”
“That’s right. This used to be a port and those used to be shipping containers. Now we live in them.”
“Did you all come here voluntarily?”
“Nobody with the gene can find a job, and the government makes it free to live here; so it’s a pretty easy choice - once you run out of money. They provide food, water, electricity, and pain killers, and then let the toxin do its work.”
“They must send doctors,” I say.
“They send coroners.”
We reach another row of gene apartments and J.W. pulls in.
“Home sweet home,” he says.
He knocks on one of the metal doors.
“Mrs. Haddad? How are you doing?” he calls, and we hear a weak ‘come in.’
A woman, who I judge to be about fifty, is lying on a filthy mat on the floor. She’s covered with sores and her eyes are glassy from pain.
“Do you need a pill?” J.W. asks.
“It won’t help. It’s almost time. Then the pain will end. I can’t find my cloth, J.W., can you see my cloth?”
J.W. reaches down and picks up a piece of cloth the size of a handkerchief that’s fallen off the mat, and places it into her hand.
“She needs a doctor,” I say.
“Is someone with you, J.W.?” Mrs. Haddad asks, and I realize that the toxin has made her blind.
“I’m a friend,” I say.
I kneel down beside her and take her hand, which is extremely warm. I close my eyes and bow my head. She reaches up and touches my face, and realizes that I’m praying.
“You are Christian?” Mrs. Haddad asks. “I am Christian too. You have been sent to pray for me.”
“That’s right. I’ll pray over you, until you’re home.”