The Julian Year Read online

  Juan counted on his fingers. “One day to travel, one day for my birthday, one day for Julio’s birthday, one day for Mommy’s birthday, one day for Daddy’s birthday, one day for the whole family, and then a day to come home. That makes seven!”

  “Yes, it does. You guys are going to have a blast.”

  “I wish you were coming,” Julio said.

  “Thanks, sport. I wish I could too, but I have a lot of work to do, and you guys need to spend time together as a family. Bring me back a souvenir, okay? No mouse ears, though. I already have a pair.”

  Julio giggled.

  Anibal climbed into the front passenger seat. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Get in back with your wife and kids,” Larry said.

  “Nah, that’s okay. I’m used to riding with you. Let me enjoy the sight of your mug one last time before my vacation starts. That way I’ll appreciate it more.”

  Jasmine sucked her teeth. “Anibal . . .”

  Larry turned around. “You see what I have to put up with, Jazzy? Sometimes I don’t know how you cope.”

  “Sometimes I think you two are the ones who are married,” Jasmine said.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Anibal said.

  Both boys laughed.

  “No thank you,” Larry said. “Let’s get in gear.”

  On the drive to LaGuardia, Larry and Anibal argued over which radio station to listen to. When they passed a burning school bus, Jasmine diverted the boys’ attention by pointing at airplanes in the sky.

  Then the airport came into view, and quiet settled over the van. Larry knew Anibal and Jasmine worried about airline security, but he didn’t want to address the situation and make it worse.

  Almost ten minutes later, he parked at the curb in front of their terminal and helped Anibal unload the bags.

  Anibal extended one hand. “I appreciate it, bro.”

  Larry shook his partner’s hand. “Have a good time, okay? Don’t lose your temper over anything; it isn’t worth it. Show those kids the time of their lives.”

  “I intend to. Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

  “I will.”

  They carried the luggage to where Jasmine and the boys stood, then Larry watched the family head into the terminal.

  George stepped on the pedal beneath the aluminum table, which raised one end, elevating Keiper’s feet higher than his head. “Get the towel.”

  Jones retrieved a cloth towel and walked over to the table, where Keiper stared up at him, a jack-o’-lantern expression on his mutilated face. Jones draped the towel over the ugliness, then seized each side of Keiper’s head with gloved hands.

  Standing at the slop sink, George filled a metal bucket with water, carried it over to the table, and poured it over Keiper’s face, which produced a shock wave of coughs and gasps. George glanced at Jones, who wore a dull expression. They had witnessed this a hundred times before in this room and on this subject. Jones withdrew the towel.

  Though still gasping for air, Keiper maintained his grin.

  “Aren’t you a tough son of a bitch for some Manhattan hipster?” George said.

  Keiper spoke in a slow, taunting tone.

  George returned the bucket to the slop sink. As he walked back to the table, he removed a miniature digital recorder from one pocket. “Well, Mr. Keiper—if that’s still your name—”

  Keiper snickered, spittle flying over his nose.

  “—we’ve come across some information that I’m confident will be a real game changer. The I in CIA stands for intelligence, and our cryptographers have deciphered that language of yours. They’ve broken the code.”

  Keiper narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m told it was an interesting code, a mixture of multiple languages run through a blender and spoken backward like an old heavy metal album. Our boys could have figured it out sooner, but they didn’t have much to go on. You and yours only spoke a handful of sentences, the most popular being ‘Fuck you,’ ‘Fuck me,’ ‘Go fuck yourself,’ and ‘Go to hell.’ Not exactly a loquacious bunch, are you?”

  “I can guess what you just said.”

  Keiper made a gurgling sound.

  George activated the voice recorder and held it out. “Now, Mr. Keiper, what have you got to say to my superiors?”

  “Get me the president,” Keiper said in a hoarse voice.

  George grunted. “The president of the United States? Not bloody likely.”

  Keiper chuckled. “I’ll only speak to the president.”

  “Then it appears this breakthrough in communication was temporary.”

  “Get me the president or I’ll fuck your wife so long and so hard she’ll forget your name.”

  George’s expression remained impassive. “Aren’t you the charmer?”

  Keiper burst into laughter.

  President Rhodes sat facing his key advisors from behind his desk in the Oval Office. Stoker, O’Rourke, Donna, and Hammond sat in a half circle around the desk, and other staff members occupied sofas and chairs around the office.

  “We have a verified number to work with now,” Stoker said. “For the month of January, 26,158,885 individuals suffered disorder. Discounting young children, senior citizens, and the disabled, approximately 18 million people committed an average of one murder before they were taken into custody, killed, or killed themselves. We count the 26 million as net loss regardless of how they were ultimately stopped.”

  Rhodes pecked at an adding machine on his desk. “Forty-four million people.”

  “Approximately 14 percent of the total population of the US.”

  “Good God.”

  “In the first half of February, the number of people killed by the disorder was cut drastically thanks to interception and incarceration.”

  “We’re living in a prison state,” Rhodes said. “Our penitentiaries are overcrowded nationwide.”

  “Yes, sir. As per your orders, we’ve renovated the old Japanese internment camps from World War II and retrofitted closed schools, hospitals, factories, and military installations. The National Guard is already protecting them.”

  Hammond leaned forward. “One hundred thousand troops have returned home. They’re being assigned to these facilities as we speak.”

  Rhodes frowned. “Still, how long will it be before we have an unsustainable prison system?”

  Stoker clicked his pen. “Theoretically, residential buildings, housing projects, and abandoned commercial properties can be utilized.”

  “How long?”

  Stoker gestured with his other hand. “Three months.”

  Rhodes blew air out of his cheeks.

  “China’s begun executing its prisoners,” Donna said. “So have Russia and India.”

  O’Rourke stared at her. “The United States of America isn’t going to practice genocide on its own people.”

  Donna remained stern. “Are they our own people?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We have to protect the lives of sane citizens committed to preserving our way of life, not masses of deranged people who want nothing more than to tear it down.”

  O’Rourke turned red. “Now, listen—”

  Rhodes raised one hand. “Calm down. We have to discuss every possible option. No one is advocating that we take such an extreme measure, right, Madame Secretary?”

  Donna faced O’Rourke. “That’s right. I only pointed out that it’s working in other countries.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Rhodes clasped his hands. “Tell me about these reports of disordered individuals working together.”

  “It’s true,” Stoker said. “They’ve begun to collaborate with each other, most often in pairs and trios, but a group of four hijacked a train in Texas.”

  “They sound more like sleepers every day,” Hammond said.

  “We’re supposed to be arresting people before they can turn,” Rhodes said.

  “We are,” Stoker said, staring down at his phone. “Unfortunately, th
ere will always be people who choose to go underground rather than turn themselves in or answer that polite knock on their door. All the disordered who worked in groups of two or more were fugitives.”

  Rhodes tapped his desktop. “These people can’t be allowed to slip through the cracks. The stakes are too high.”

  “I never thought I’d see this country turn into Beirut,” O’Rourke said.

  “Through no fault of our own,” Rhodes said.

  “How do we know that? There’s an intelligence at work here; there has to be. The disordered use a common language, and now they’re working together. Perhaps we’re being punished by a higher power.”

  “Judgment Day is hardly an original concept,” Rhodes said.

  “Everyone in this room has been afraid to ask the obvious question: What have we done to deserve this?”

  “None of us is completely innocent, is he?”

  “No, sir.”

  Stoker looked up from his smartphone. “Excuse me, Mr. President. I just received an urgent message. A disordered prisoner named Wilhelm Keiper, who was apprehended in New York City on day one, just spoke to his interrogators in English. He insists on speaking to you face-to-face.”

  Rhodes didn’t bat an eye. “Is the prisoner in Langley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get me there as soon as possible.”

  “The vice president’s set to make his resignation speech later. You’re supposed to stand beside him.”

  O’Rourke shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. You can tout my time in office another time. This is more important.”

  Rhodes nodded. “Yes, it is. Thank you, Chris.” He scanned the faces in the office. “This is the vice president’s last week in office. He’s agreed to stay on for a few days to ensure a smooth transition for Donna. For the last six weeks, he’s worked tirelessly on contingency plans should the leap-year babies prove immune to disorder. I want to thank him for his service to the nation, to the world, and to humanity.”

  Rhodes rose and clapped, and around the office the others rose as well.

  Standing with a broad smile on his face, O’Rourke blushed.

  News Alert

  The White House announced that Vice President Christopher O’Rourke is resigning from his post. “I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to serve President Rhodes and this great nation of ours. It’s been an honor,” Vice President O’Rourke said. “I wish to devote the remainder of my time on earth with my family.” O’Rourke turns sixty-two on March 14.

  President Rhodes is expected to announce O’Rourke’s successor tomorrow. White House insiders say that Secretary of State Donna Lopez is favored to win the appointment.

  Fifteen

  Flanked by half a dozen Secret Service men, President Rhodes entered CIA headquarters in Langley, where he was greeted by Director McDonald and several of his subordinates, who led them through the facility.

  The president and his Secret Service detail entered a large room with a single chair facing a metal slab that held a male in a black jumpsuit. Wide leather straps secured the man’s wrists, arms, legs, feet, and sternum to the table. A glass partition separated the room from another. In the other room, Stoker sat among the dozen men with front-row seats for the historic meeting.

  Staring at the prisoner, Rhodes fought to remain expressionless. Bruises, cuts, and boils covered the man’s face, and his glassy eyes appeared sunken in shallow pits, giving Rhodes the impression that he festered from within.

  McDonald gestured at the prisoner. “Mr. President, this is Wilhelm Keiper.”

  Keiper sneered. “Mr. President.”

  Rhodes tried not to recoil at the sight of the prisoner’s bloodred eyes. “Keiper. Is that really who you are?”

  Keiper snickered. “‘My name is Legion for we are many.’”

  Rhodes took a step closer to him. “What happened to your eyes?”

  “They’re the windows to my soul.”

  “All the inmates with birthdays on day one and day two have developed the same condition.”

  “They look like they’re hemorrhaging.”

  “There’s no medical explanation for it. It’s certainly nothing we’ve done.” McDonald gestured to a well-built man. “Specialist Wherle supervised the interrogations from the time we brought Mr. Keiper in.”

  “Thank you for your service, Specialist Wherle,” Rhodes said.

  “He’s a true-blue American,” Keiper said.

  Rhodes narrowed his eyes. “Why do you wish to speak to me?”

  “Why do you wish to speak to me?”

  “I want answers.”

  “Come and get them.”

  The president maintained a cool demeanor. “Who are you?”

  “I’m an ancient soul, too long confined to darkness and torment.”

  “Define ancient.”

  “I’m one thousand years old, give or take a decade.”

  “Where are you from?” “I lived and died in the land you call Greece.”

  Rhodes remained still. “Where have you spent all of that time?”

  Keiper’s eyes glistened like twin pools of blood. “You know.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “What you want means nothing to us. We only care about what we want.”

  “Then tell me what that is.”

  “We want to rule this world. We want the death of humanity. We want revenge.”

  Rhodes tried to show no reaction. “Revenge for what?”

  “For keeping us in darkness.”

  “Surely you don’t mean us?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re worthless except as vassals. You’ve been allowed to multiply on the green world that you’ve abused while we’ve languished in the pits of Gehenna.”

  “Gehenna? The word is Greek to me.”

  “Our world has many names: hades, Orcus, Sheol, Pluto, Tartarus, hell.”

  “Then you claim to be a demon?”

  “In terms that your mind and language can grasp, I’m a damned soul.”

  “And you’ve possessed the body of Wilhelm Keiper.”

  “This body belongs to me now.”

  “Do you serve Satan, the devil?”

  “There’s no such entity. I serve myself but I also serve the many. We are one.”

  “You think with one mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Satan doesn’t exist, does God?”

  “Ask me another question.”

  “You said you’re here for revenge. Revenge against whom? If we’re not responsible for your confinement to this darkness you describe, who is?”

  Keiper looked through the window at Stoker, then back at Rhodes. “Play games with us at your peril. In less than one year, mankind will no longer exist, except for your babes we will raise as pets, playthings, and slaves.”

  “What’s your name? Tell me so I know what to call you.”

  “Call me master.”

  “That isn’t going to happen. What happened to Mr. Keiper’s soul?”

  “He’s my prisoner. I’ve relegated him to the darkness of his own mind.”

  “Then he can be freed?”

  “Never.”

  “Why did you start speaking English today?”

  “You broke the code.”

  Rhodes glanced at Stoker, who shook his head in a helpless gesture, then turned back to the prisoner. “Do you have a leader?”

  “We act as one, with a shared goal.”

  “Who can we negotiate with?”

  “There’s nothing to negotiate. If we don’t kill you, we’ll inhabit you. There’s no escape.”

  “You’re wasting my time with fantasy.”

  “Poor Hari, you never were a believer, were you? You only pretended to find religion when you got into politics, because in this country no politician can win office unless he claims to believe in God.”

  Nice try, Rhodes thought. “You may know my biography, but you don’t know my heart or my mind.”r />
  Keiper’s eyes grew brighter. “You cheated on your college tests. You only got into politics to seduce your wife and only pursued a career when you fell in love with power. Your followers believe you’re a good, honest man, but we know better. We know about the backroom deals, the favors in exchange for campaign contributions, the broken promises. We know about that tart in Chicago, the one in El Paso, and the one in Hershey, Pennsylvania. You and your volunteers. You love the flesh even more than the power, don’t you?”

  Rhodes clenched his fists. “I don’t know what’s going on here or how you came by your so-called information, but you haven’t convinced me of anything.”

  “You’ll be convinced when we take your wife and your daughters from you and do to them what you did to those—”

  “Stop it.” Rhodes ignored the others in the room. “I don’t think there’s anything else for us to discuss. For now, I’m dismissing you as a lunatic. If you decide to share information that’s actually useful or if you wish to negotiate on behalf of your people, you know how to reach me.”

  As Rhodes turned to leave the room, Keiper took a deep breath, and a stream of crimson arched out of his mouth.

  “Look out!” Wherle said.

  A Secret Service man dove between the prisoner and the president. The stream of blood struck the man in the face, and he collapsed to the floor. His comrades encircled Rhodes, drawing their weapons.

  “Go ahead and run, Hari. No place on earth is safe. You can’t hide from us. And neither can your wife and children . . .”

  Rhodes allowed the Secret Service men to open the door for him and escort him through it. At least that way he wouldn’t give the prisoner the satisfaction of hearing the door slam.

  Marine One lifted off from Langley’s airfield, and Rhodes faced his advisor. “How’s Meadavoy?”

  “He checked out fine. It was just blood. We don’t know how Keiper was able to projectile vomit it like that, though.”

  “Meadavoy deserves a medal. Arrange it. The world could use a hero right now.”