The Julian Year Page 19

  You know you’re in trouble when a snowplow drives off the road, Rachel thought. She stopped and lowered her window. “Are you okay?”

  The man spat in the snow. “Yeah, thanks. I couldn’t slow her down.”

  She pondered his situation. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  “Nah, that’s all right. I radioed for help. They’re sending a car for me and a truck for the plow.”

  “Be careful. Someone might not see you standing there.” Always a cop.

  The man stared at the plow as if contemplating his future. “I’m more worried about who might see me standing here.”

  She bit her lip. “I really don’t mind giving you a lift.”

  The man glanced at the cloudy sky. “I’ll be okay.”

  Rachel raised her window and resumed driving. Half a mile later, glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw a flash of reflected light, which caused her body to stiffen. The light stopped moving, and she concluded the snowplow driver had been rescued.

  Good. One less thing to worry about.

  “Late breaking news this hour on All News Radio. It was just ten days ago that the world rejoiced at the news that people born on leap-year day were spared from possession. Today families across the United States staged demonstrations to protest the government’s blackout of communication with the survivors.

  “In New York City, journalist Julian Weizak, author of the popular column The Julian Year for the Daily Post, speculated that the so-called leapfrogs are no longer being kept at protected detention centers across the country.”

  Weizak’s voice came over the speakers. “I spent twenty-four hours in the Shady Trees Retirement Home on Long Island, where I got to know many of the February 29 survivors. I interviewed them, sat with them while they waited to learn their fates, and now I can’t reach any of them. I’ve been in touch with their family members, and none of them can reach them, either. When family members and press are denied access to law-abiding citizens, why should the public believe those people are where the government says they are?”

  February 29 survivors. Leave it to Weizak to coin a new term.

  Then the announcer’s voice returned. “Also in New York City, attorney Marc Weinberger has demanded answers from the government and announced his intention to file a class-action lawsuit on behalf of the family members of the February 29 survivors.”

  Weinberger spoke from somewhere outside, the wind rustling his microphone. “Of course I don’t believe these people are where the government held them a week and a half ago. They’ve obviously been removed for their own protection and are being kept at undisclosed locations. The question is, are they being held against their will? Their families have a right to know.”

  “So far there has been no comment from the government,” the newscaster said.

  Rachel drew in a deep breath. Had she escaped just in time, or had her escape caused the relocation of her fellow leapfrogs?

  Rachel pulled into the parking lot of a truck stop outside Columbus for lunch and had difficulty finding a parking space between all the military vehicles. She passed a pair of soldiers smoking near the front doors and entered the diner. More soldiers, state police officers, and National Guards occupied the booths, so she took an empty stool at the counter between two men she assumed were truck drivers.

  A plump middle-aged waitress set a menu before her. “Coffee, hon?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “ID?”

  Wondering how much longer her ruse would work, Rachel took out her fake ID.

  The woman looked at the photo, then at Rachel. She examined the photo again, handed the ID back, and smiled. “I like what you did with your hair.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman served her coffee, and Rachel zeroed in on a TV in the upper corner behind the counter. She couldn’t hear it over the din of voices, but she saw the afternoon lunch show was broadcasting a story about the families of the February 29 survivors.

  “I don’t believe there are any February 29 survivors,” the man on her left said. He had short, wavy brown hair, and his five o’clock shadow had arrived several hours early.

  Rachel cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Oh?”

  The driver scrunched up his face. “I don’t believe for a minute that anyone is alive because of leap year. Everything happens because it was predestined. Leap year is a man-made concept.”

  “What if man was predestined to create it?”

  “It would have been in the Bible or the constitution.” The man gazed at her, waiting for her to agree with him. “I suppose you don’t believe in the Bible or the constitution.”

  Oh, God, here it comes. “I’m Jewish.”

  The man stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “I believe it. You’re from New York too from the sound of it.”

  “Is there something wrong with New York?”

  The man stood and fished in one pocket of his dirty blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt dangling from beneath his brown leather jacket. A holstered automatic handgun hung from his side. He took out a wad of cash, then set two bills on the counter. “I guess you’re not one of the chosen people after all.”

  Tempted to respond, she watched him leave.

  The snow disappeared before Rachel entered Indiana. She reached Indianapolis after dinnertime, then searched for the right exit, cautious to avoid roadside checkpoints.

  By the time she pulled into the parking slot before the duplex, her ankles and wrists throbbed. Climbing out of the Focus, she looked around. Up the sidewalk, a man walked a black poodle concoction. Rachel stared at the duplex’s front door, then mounted the concrete steps and pushed the doorbell.

  The blind in the window to her right moved to one side, and she felt someone scrutinizing her. Locks turned and slid on the other side of the door, which opened, revealing a tall brunette who wore white slacks and a matching sweater. The woman opened her mouth to speak, then narrowed her eyes. “Rachel?”

  She smiled.

  “Oh, my God, you look so different.” Lynette Bryson stepped forward, and Rachel gave her a warm hug.

  They clung to each other until a voice interrupted them. “Mom, who’s that?”

  Rachel looked down at a small boy. She guessed he was four. “Hi, there. You must be Denny.”

  The boy said nothing.

  “That’s right,” Lynette said. “Denny, this is my friend Rachel. We served in the navy together. Come on in.”

  Rachel stepped inside and Lynette closed the door.

  Rachel got down on one knee. “Can I have a hug hello?”

  Nodding, Denny hugged Rachel.

  “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Denny broke off the hug. “Were you on the big boat with Mommy?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “I’m watching TV!” He ran to the sofa and climbed on top of it.

  “What are you doing here?” Lynette said with bewilderment in her voice.

  “I’m traveling across the country,” Rachel said. “I couldn’t pass through Indiana without saying hello. Is Mickey home?”

  Biting her lip, Lynette shook her head. “He reported to detention a month ago.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all part of living now, isn’t it?”

  Rachel studied Denny’s features. “So it’s just the two of you?”

  “My family and Mickey’s family live here. My birthday is next month, and Denny’s isn’t until September. He’ll have family to take care of him after I’m gone.” She paused. “When’s your last day?”

  If Lynette didn’t remember when Rachel was born, Rachel didn’t plan to tell her. “November 2.”

  Lynette stared at her. “Let’s sit down.” She led Rachel over to a round wooden table with four chairs, and they both sat. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I want to be able to get some sleep tonight.”

  “Do you need a place to stay?”

  “That would be nice.”
Rachel looked around the immaculate space. “How’s your family?”

  “My parents are still alive. How about yours?”

  “They’re moving to Florida. Why not, right?”

  Lynette frowned. “And where are you going? You said you’re traveling across the country.”

  Rachel felt a tingling at the base of her neck, warning her to be careful. “I’m going too. I’m just taking the scenic route. You know what they say: Florida is a great place to die.”

  Lynette wore a skeptical expression. “Are you still a cop?”

  Rachel felt an invisible noose tightening. Why had she come here? “It’s gotten too crazy in New York. I did my time.” She hoped that would satisfy her. “How about you?”

  “I’m a widowed mother. I have enough benefits to get by. There will be no vacation during my last two weeks, though.”

  Rachel gazed at Denny. “It isn’t easy for anyone anymore.”

  Lynette stood. “I have to give him a bath. It’s important to maintain a schedule.”

  “Does he go to school?”

  “With all the school shootings? Not a chance. But the surviving parents are working together. We meet in small groups, so the kids can see their friends and follow a routine.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Lynette called to Denny. “Come on, squirt. Let’s get Rachel settled in the guest room and you can take your bath.”

  Denny slid off the sofa without protest and switched off the TV.

  So well behaved, Rachel thought. As he passed her and climbed the carpeted stairs, she saw defeat in his eyes.

  Awakening in darkness, Rachel had to gather her thoughts to remember her location. The alarm clock beside the bed glowed 2:36. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, listening to silence, then rose and made her way to the bedroom door. A streetlight shining through the window at the end of the hall cast rectangles of light on the stairs.

  Rachel crept past the other bedrooms and downstairs, where she sat at the computer hutch in the living room. She tapped the touch pad on the laptop, and the screen awakened. Rachel blinked at her own Facebook page, which Lynette must have been studying. The information section listed her birthday. Lynette knew she was a February 29 survivor.

  Swallowing, Rachel logged out of Lynette’s account and keyed in her own log-in information. Her finger hovered over the Enter button. If she logged on and deleted her birthday, the government or the MacNeils could trace her location. She cleared the fields instead.

  Fucking Facebook.

  Closing the front door behind her, Rachel hurried down the steps and got into the Focus. She had to get as far away from Lynette as possible, and Florida was no longer an option. She needed to trade in her car as well. It wasn’t enough to go off the grid. She had to go somewhere no one would know her.

  Twenty-six

  The Julian Year

  By Julian Weizak

  March 12

  On February 29, the human population of this fertile world of ours breathed a deep sigh of relief upon learning that a fraction of our brothers and sisters will see the light of day beyond December 31 of this year when the rest of us will have perished or been possessed by the souls of the damned.

  For those keeping track, I’ll still be here on the last day of man, unless some unkind fate befalls me between now and then, which is entirely likely. In other words, aside from the number associated with our respective birthdays, we’re in the same boat and it’s raining outside. Let’s face it: at a time when both Russia and China are under the direct control of the possessed, we all needed some good news. President Rhodes wasted no time spreading the cheer, although he took no credit for this miraculous event and would have been ridiculed had he done so.

  “Mankind will survive,” Rhodes proclaimed on March 1. “His number will be greatly diminished, and his future is uncertain, but he will endure and multiply.”

  Vice President Lopez also commented on the leap-year day miracle. “Now we have reason to hope, and if one miracle can happen, who’s to say another one can’t?”

  Last week President Rhodes commented on Lopez’s predecessor. “Vice President O’Rourke was the first person who gave me hope that our future lay with those born on leap-year day. It saddens me that he didn’t live to see his theory realized, but now that we have reason to believe in an afterlife, I’m confident he’s smiling wherever he is.”

  The late veep, who committed suicide on February 14, is believed to have provided more than optimism to President Rhodes. Sources within the White House suggest that it was O’Rourke who devised the plan to spirit all the February 29 survivors in the country away from their respective detention centers, and the sudden disappearances have been referenced as the O’Rourke Doctrine.

  Neither the government nor the military will say where the February 29 survivors have been taken. Concerned family members have been told nothing. Conspiracy theories abound. This morning the White House issued the following statement: “February 29 survivors have been sequestered for their own protection.”

  The detention centers used to house February 29 survivors during the countdown to leap-year day are now being converted to makeshift prisons that will house less benevolent residents.

  Twenty-seven

  March 22

  Anibal awoke ahead of the alarm clock. He was not surprised to find Jasmine’s side of the bed deserted. Rising with a sigh, he switched the alarm off and sauntered out of the bedroom wearing boxer shorts and a tank top. Outside the bathroom, he opened the door to the boys’ room. Jasmine lay on the top bunk with Julio, her back to him. Juan snored on the bottom bed. By her silence and steady breathing, Anibal assumed his wife wanted him to believe she was asleep, but he didn’t.

  After his shower he shaved. He had taken three days’ leave from work, but he wanted to appear neat. It was important not to fall apart. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he returned to the bedroom he shared with Jasmine and dressed in slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie.

  I look like I’m going to a funeral, he thought, studying his reflection in the bureau mirror, so he changed into jeans and a polo shirt instead.

  Then he returned to the kids’ bedroom. “Okay, everybody up!”

  Juan stirred first, then Julio in Jasmine’s arms.

  “Come on, gang.”

  As soon as Julio sat up, Jasmine clung to him.

  “Jazzy? It’s just a normal day, remember?”

  She said nothing.

  “Get dressed, guys.” Anibal went into the kitchen and set out the cereal and milk. He poured juice into four glasses and inserted bread into the toaster.

  Jasmine entered in a trance.

  “You have to get dressed, hon.”

  She stared daggers at him. He ignored her, and she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  The boys came out and sat at the table. As they poured their cereal, the toaster ejected browned toast.

  Anibal collected the toast on a plate, which he set before his sons. Then he sat. “We’re going to do something different today.”

  “What?” Julio said.

  “No school today.” Jasmine had kept the boys home from school all year so far. She had introduced a simple regimen of home schooling, just enough to keep them occupied.

  “How come?” Juan said.

  “Because Principal Jasmine wants to take you both shopping for new clothes. But we’re taking you one at a time, so, Juan, you’re going to stay with Grandma until lunchtime, and then Julio will stay with Grandma and we’ll take you.”

  “That’s weird,” Juan said.

  “Yeah, well, these are weird times. It can be dangerous out there, and we’ll feel better if we have to watch out for only one of you at a time.”

  Jasmine opened the bedroom door and entered the kitchen. She had applied makeup to distract from her puffy eyes.

  Anibal raised a plate. “Do you want some toast?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sit down, then.
Let’s enjoy breakfast as a family.”

  Taking a deep breath, Jasmine followed his suggestion.

  Anibal made eye contact with her. “Are you okay? I can take the kids alone if you need to stay home.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, but he doubted she would ever be the same again.

  When Weizak knocked on one of the glass doors to One Hudson Square, he was surprised to see a security guard he didn’t know unlock and open it.

  The guard, a tall black man with gray hair and droopy eyelids, looked around the sidewalk. “Yeah?”

  “Where’s Sam?” Weizak said.

  “He’s on his last two weeks,” the guard said.

  Weizak’s shoulders drooped. “Damn, he didn’t say anything yesterday. I would have liked to have said good-bye.”

  “I’m sure that would have meant a lot to him.” The guard spoke in a monotone. “You got ID?”

  “Oh yeah.” Weizak took out his wallet and removed his Daily Post ID.

  The guard examined it, then stepped back from the doorway. “Go ahead.”

  In the lobby, Weizak watched the guard close the door and lock it. “Do you have a number for him?”

  The guard narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

  “Sam.”

  “No. Call the security company. Maybe they’ll give it to you.”

  “Thanks. What’s his last name?”

  “Smalls.” He said it in a way that suggested Weizak was a lesser being for not knowing Sam’s last name.

  I don’t even want to learn this guy’s first name, Weizak thought as he walked to the elevators.

  In the newsroom on the sixth floor, he saw two reporters packing boxes at their desks. Rosen sat in his office, which had been Nowak’s desk until ten days earlier.

  Ignoring his own desk, Weizak walked the length of the newsroom and stood in the editor’s doorway. “What’s going on?”

  Rosen regarded Weizak with ambivalence. “The parent company’s closing up shop. The government’s willing to bankroll us to keep us going but only as an online edition. The guys in printing and production and all the drivers are gone.” He nodded at the men gathering their belongings from their desks. “We need to streamline our operation. Pete and Michael are out. Don’t worry. You’re still in.”