Last Days (Last Days Trilogy #1) (14 page)

Kneeling and violently coughing up dust, Marcus gripped Reggie’s hand and hoisted her to a sitting position. “You okay?” He coughed again.

“Yeah.” Reggie scratched her nose as Marcus scooted away, palming the dust. “What are you doing?”

“Has to be here,” he said to himself. “Aha.”

“What?”

“This.” Marcus stood and flicked on a small flashlight.

“Kind of tiny,” Reggie smiled.

“Doctors have little ones,” Marcus smiled back, shining the tiny beam on her, and then frowned. “Your head’s bleeding.” He reached out to touch her forehead. “An abrasion. It’s all right.” He slowly circled, surveying the constricted space of the room. “Oh shit.”

The stairwell door was blown off and lying to the side of the storage room. One shelving unit was toppled, another was still attached to the wall, its contents scattered on the ground. Marcus tipped a wastebasket and watched it roll across the room. Half of the ceiling angled over the doorway making it impassable.

Marcus chuckled. “Amazing.”

“Amazing, right.” Reggie swept the hair from her eyes and scanned the room. “We’re lucky we weren’t killed.”

“Yes,” he shrugged. “But we’ve got to get out of here.” Marcus shined the light around.

Reggie nodded. She could hear a faint dripping sound.

Marcus suddenly brightened. “Hey, some good may have come from all this.”

“What’s that?”

He grinned and hugged Reggie. “If the building blew up... so did Devante.”

A dry flower petal drifted to the long glass tabletop as Rev. Bailey fingered the bouquet brought to his suite an hour earlier. They weren’t as fresh as they looked, he thought, watching another petal drop. He made a mental note to complain to management, and then sipped his bourbon. It was almost time.

Finally he heard a knock on the door. Rev. Bailey set down his drink, paused at the mirror, and then stepped quickly to the suite door. He opened it eye-level to a massive chest. His eyes ascended in a uncertain tilt, as if looking up at a skyscraper.

Devante smiled down at him.

“Come... come in.” Rev. Bailey stepped out of the way.

Devante ducked his seven feet under the doorjamb. He had traded in his hospital scrubs for a long white top that draped over a pair of tan pants.

Rev. Bailey noticed his security people approaching from behind Devante. “No.” He raised his hand. “I want to be alone with my guest, thanks all the same, boys.” He closed the door and leaned against it, taking a moment to let the sight of Devante sink in.

Finally he extended his hand. “I’m Rev. Bailey.”

Devante looked down with a puzzled expression.

“You shake.” Rev. Bailey held his hand further.

Devante lifted his own hand and stared at his palm. “My hands are steady.”

“No,” Rev. Bailey smiled. “It’s a sign of peace. You know, ‘Peace’? Your favorite word.” Nervous, he realized how stupid he sounded. To cover his embarrassment, Rev. Bailey took Devante’s hand and shook it. “There.”

Devante pulled his hand back and looked again.

“I felt the power from you,” said the reverend.

“As well you should.” Devante looked around the room. “Your men took me to a room downstairs with much clothing. They dressed me. They were kind.”

“Well, Ephesians 4:32 says, ‘be kind to each other’...” Rev. Bailey again noted the lost look. “The Bible, New Testament?”

“New Testament?”

“Yes, it was written...” Rev. Bailey stopped. “Sorry. After your death.”

Devante lifted his head in a slight nod. “I see.” He looked about the room. “Different this place looks.”

“I wanted the best for you. You deserve the best.”

“Again, you show kindness.” Devante walked slowly into the room.

“Shall I call you ‘Jesus’?”

Quickly whirling around, Devante emphatically answered. “No.”

“No?”

“That is a name from the past. The man who delivered my body calls me Devante. It signifies something called Advent.”

“The Coming.”

“Yes,” Devante nodded. “I wish to be called that. As I have been waiting a long time for the perfect opportunity.”

“And that is now?”

“The door was opened by Dr. Leon.”

“You had to wait for a door?” Rev. Bailey asked, as he followed Devante into the suite.

“We all have to wait for openings. The door opened when I was needed most.”

“I couldn’t agree more. The world has become a terrible place. Hatred, lies, deceit, wars.”

Devante smiled. “I picked the perfect time.” He stopped to stare at the dead flowers.

“Darned management sent those.” Rev. Bailey tried to smile. “I can’t believe how fast they died.”

“You should believe it.” Devante picked up a petal and clutched it in his massive fist. “You will see it quite often now.” He extended his hand, palms up to Rev. Bailey, and then slowly uncurled his fingers from around the dead petal. “The death of all living things.”

The hole was no bigger than two-and-a-half feet in circumference with a jagged edge. The flashlight moved about within the hole. Marcus crouched down against the fallen ceiling and peered in. “Anything?”

Reggie, flashlight in hand, belly crawled through the rubble. “It’s still an opening.”

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She spat dust. “Do you see anything?”

“No,” Marcus said. “I’m more concerned about you in this hole.”

Reggie edged over a bit more and stopped. “Shit.”

“What?”

She slammed her hand against a piece of concrete. “Dead end.”

“Then come back out.”

“No, I think I’ll live here,” she said sarcastically and began scooting backwards.

Marcus grabbed a hold of her ankles and tugged her back through.

“Dead end,” Reggie repeated, wiping her face and shining the flashlight over the room. “What about the stairwell?”

“I couldn’t check it out.” Marcus pointed to the flashlight. “But I found an emergency kit.”

“Good.” Reggie walked across the rubble, stepping around the downed shelf. She looked at the crooked door and shined the flashlight into the old stairwell. The light reflected off the metal of the steps. “Damn it.” Her arm dropped.

“We’ll find a way out, Reg, even if we have to dig. Besides, they must know we’re in here and... listen. Dripping water.” Marcus hushed. “It’s a ways off. We’ll have to check that. In the meantime, let’s wait to see if they’re sending in a search party.”

“I guess you’re right.” Reggie looked down. “Hey, Gatorade. At least we won’t die of thirst.” She bent down and picked up the bottle. “Let’s move this shelf so we can at least sit.”

“Grab an end.”

Reggie set the flashlight down in a safe corner, and returned to the shelf.

“On three.” Marcus gripped the shelf.

Reggie grabbed an end. She listened to Marcus’ count and then gave a heaving grunt as they hoisted it up. “Edge around front, Marcus. I got it.”

“You’ll drop it on me. I’ll hold it, you edge around front.”

“You’ll drop it on me. No.”

“Reg, one of us has to edge around front,” he huffed.

“All right, gees. And you wonder why I’m worried. Got it?”

“Yeah.” Marcus kicked at the shelf to bring it out and make it steady. “There.”

Reggie turned around. “That wasn’t too difficult.”

“No, not at all. Hey look, a basin.”

“A basin?” Reggie snickered. “You mean a sink. A basin is a little thing. That’s a stationary tub.”

“You’re right.” Marcus opened the emergency kit, grabbed its sling, and took it to the sink.

“What are you doing?”

“For your head.” He nudged the water on and dampened the cloth. “You don’t want it to get infected.” He handed her the wet sling. “Hey look, Reg.” Marcus grabbed a bucket and held it up. “A toilet.”

“Swell.”

Marcus set down the bucket. “Reg, come on,” he said softly, “I’m sorry this is happening.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Tell you what. Let’s try to get some sleep. Save on our light.”

“Sounds good.” Reggie walked over to their belongings, duffel bag, briefcase, purse and blanket. She grabbed the blanket and sat on the floor.

Marcus, with the flashlight, sat next to her.

“I’m cold. I mean really cold,” said Reggie.

Marcus took the blanket and moved against her. “Here.” He leaned against a wall. “Lay your head on my leg, I’ll cover you.”

“All right.” Reggie lowered down and curled up, placing her head on Marcus’ leg.

Marcus smiled a weary smile and fanned the blanket over her.

“Marcus?” Reggie spoke, groggy. “Can I tell you something… without you getting mad?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I don’t think Devante blew up.”

Marcus was silent. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. It seemed he wanted to say something. Finally, he said, “Neither do I.”

Engulfed in a dark, constricted space, unable to move, Marcus panicked. He couldn’t breathe. In the back of his sleeping mind he considered the possibility that his present real-life fear was manifesting itself in a dream, as there was a certain softness surrounding him that tempered the concern he felt.

Arms swinging, sifting through the softness, he felt a tingle, as if someone or something was brushing against his fingers as his arms moved upward. It wasn’t water.

Light seeped through a small hole from above. It lit his face as he looked up, and then, through the hole came a hand. A masculine hand, but not overly large. Marcus gripped the hand and felt it pull him up, levering him past the soft walls of entombment. He emerged through the hole like a newborn. The bright sun made him squint. He gasped for air and then saw where he had come from. Half of him was still in the ground. Topside, everywhere he looked was earth, dirt-covered cars, the rooftops of buried houses, and mounds of debris. Nothing else except for the carpet of soil that spread as far as the eye could see.

The still-clutching hand pulled harder and heaved him up all the way. He rolled onto his back. The hand released him. When it did, he saw eyes, green, translucent, peaceful. The face was a blur, but the eyes were a man’s, close and staring.

“I will need her, Marcus,” said the voice softly, with passion. “
I
... will need her.”

Marcus couldn’t answer. Blinking, he noticed the man’s bare legs. Marcus brought himself up on his hands and knees only to see the man walk away. He saw only the man’s back but didn’t recognize him. He was no taller than six-foot, his hair a dirty dark blond, shoulder-length. The further the man got from Marcus, the more the sun shadowed him. Suddenly a horse neighed, followed by trampling hoofs near his head. Marcus woke up.

The faint steady sound of dripping water punctuated his awakening. Reggie was asleep, curled on his lap. Marcus raised his arm and pressed the side of his watch, illuminating its face. He hadn’t been sleeping for very long; the sun hadn’t even risen. Tired, and not wanting to disturb Reggie, Marcus closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Kyle’s property wasn’t large, at least in the beginning. But when he purchased the property next door, he tore down its dilapidated, deserted house, and was finally able to do what he wanted. A mini farm, he termed it. He fenced in both properties, called himself ‘Big Hoss’ and began a lifelong dream. But he couldn’t make a living off of the corn and vegetables and eight chickens in his sorry-looking coop. At one time he had a pig too, but the pig became dinners for him and Reggie during one of the shop’s slow spells.

The farm chores were a real treasure now, as they took his mind off of the emotional roller coaster of the television news. A short time before he heard that it was believed but not confirmed, his daughter and Marcus were safe. A minute later, rescue workers were trying to dig them out. It wasn’t going well. The bungling angered Kyle. But what pissed him off more was the media downplaying the potential loss of two people.

The big story was Devante, of course.

It was ridiculous, the hoopla surrounding the clone. The people screamed Devante’s name, and bought his amniotic fluid. The last Kyle heard, folks were already lined up for miles to listen to him give his first “sermon.”

A clone. A product of some genius boy from Ohio named Marcus Leon. It could have been so simple, a ‘nothing more, nothing less’ situation. But the masses saw it differently. They glorified the situation and overreacted. They insisted on seeing the clone as a sign from God, ignoring the basic tenants of science and religion.

But, as much as the news disturbed him, it was Kyle’s only way to learn about his daughter’s situation.

Looking up at the sun, he saw it was time to go back in the house.

Emerging from the blue and white metal tool shed – a large one he constructed himself with old car parts – Kyle closed the door behind him and secured the padlock. He walked from the shed and stopped at the water pump, checking the chain and padlock on that, as well.

Kyle was never one to be paranoid, although locking up his vital means of survival in a small town could be construed as just that. But his gut instinct screamed at him to do it. He wasn’t psychic, but his instincts were good. He followed them and they never let him down. He always seemed to know if something significant was in the air. To Kyle, the air was thick and telling. A foreboding feeling swirled in his gut. Nothing good was about to come. Of that he was certain. And there was one other thing Kyle was certain of - all that was going on, the clone, the insanity, was the just the beginning to the end.

<><><><>