Vestige (7 page)

He couldn’t remember the exact moment he stopped believing, but it was awhile ago. Regardless, he stuck with the plan because a priest could help people, really make a difference. But, in time, he saw the cracks in this thinking. Sure, he helped people, but it was never enough. He worked on an assembly line of need. Fix one and there’s another right behind and another and another. No matter what he did, there was no difference. The world wasn’t going to change on his watch.

Yes, he should leave right now, just turn around and walk out. But where would he go? His mother was his only family. And what could he do? He didn’t have much savings. He didn’t have any marketable skills. He didn’t even own property. He would be essentially homeless.

Thomas ran his fingers across the top of his head, smoothing his hair. He reached into the closet for his vestments and sighed. The congregation wanted comfort and hope, and they expected him to deliver. But he didn’t have the answers. Somehow, he managed to convince everyone that he was a devoted Christian. Would he be able to fake it today? Would the people embrace his empty words? Maybe he should have gone to the meeting at the village hall instead of Father Vincent.

Vincent was a man of great faith. He always trusted in God, no matter what the situation. If he were here, he would know how to tend the flock. He would give them hope and ease their troubled souls.

Thomas admired Vincent but at the same time found him foolish. How could Vincent be so blind to the human condition? Even though St. Francis was in an affluent community, people still had horrible problems. The parish overflowed with the abused, sick, and lonely. Money couldn’t buy these people happiness, nor could it buy Thomas faith.

Thomas, resigned to his lot, stepped up to the altar to begin mass. As he looked out at the congregation, he noticed a homeless man in the front row. The man stared at Thomas. At first, the man looked confused, but then he looked away as if he couldn’t stand the sight of the priest.

Thomas felt naked. Could the homeless man see his lack of faith? Beads of sweat began to form on Thomas’s forehead. He couldn’t go off-script today, so after the Gospel reading, he skipped the homily and went right into the Apostle’s Creed.

At the end of the mass, the people remained firmly planted in their seats. Thomas scratched his head. Usually, when the organist hit that last note, the people raced to the parking lot. What did they want? Why weren’t they leaving?

Thomas hurried back to the sacristy. He was about to remove his vestments when he heard a knock on the doorframe. Martin, the organist, stood in the entryway.

“Excuse me Father, but the people are wondering if you can hear their confessions.”

Thomas exhaled. “How many?”

“Well, I think, all of them?”

“Impossible...that will take all day.” Thomas shook his head. “I’m the only one here. Who knows how long Father Vincent will be gone, and Father Joseph and Deacon Andrew...well…they’re missing.”

“I can stay and play. Arnie said he could keep singing.”

“Sure...now they want to confess their sins,” Thomas muttered. “Where have they been all these years? I’m here every Saturday morning, and I’m lucky if one person shows up.”

“Maybe, you’re not aware of this Father, but many of the parishioners believe that this might be the end of the world. You know...um, the Rapture.”

Thomas laughed and hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Don’t they realize that if this is the Rapture, we’ve been left behind? Confession won’t help any of us. The Rapture isn’t even a Catholic thing. It’s a myth concocted by those who think they’re more deserving than others are.”

“Maybe you need to tell them that.” Martin’s face tightened. “It is your job. Isn’t it?”

Thomas looked at Martin for a moment. He had a point. “All right, all right, I’ll hear their confessions, but I’m not giving some long lecture on the meaning of the Rapture and why it’s not present in Catholic doctrine.”

Martin left, and Thomas readied himself for a long day. Hearing confessions was better than preaching anyway. He wouldn’t have to say much—just pretend to listen, say a few prayers, and pass out penance—no inspiring, hopeful speeches required.

When he walked back into the church, he could feel their eyes on him. So, Thomas put his head down and hurried to the confessionals. He stepped into the dark closet, sat down, and slid the little door open.

Chapter Seven

Micah and Clarke wandered aimlessly through the streets of LaGrange. A wall of awkwardness stood between them. Micah wanted to look at Clarke, but he kept his eyes forward. Hanging with her seemed like a good idea twenty minutes ago, but he was beginning to have second thoughts. What should they do? Where should they go? After all, yesterday was the first time he had ever talked to this girl. He couldn’t just blurt out what had happened to his dad, could he? How would she take a story like that?

They had walked several blocks before Clarke broke the silence. “So…” she twirled a piece of her hair with her fingers and looked at Micah expectantly.

“So…what?”

“Um…we should probably go to one of our houses since we’re not supposed to be walking around,” she said.

“And why aren’t we supposed to be walking around?”

“Didn’t you hear the Emergency Alert?” Clarke asked.

“The what?”

“Micah, you need to turn on a TV or radio every now and then. An Emergency Alert is kind of like a public service thingy. You know…there’s a buzzing sound, and then a voice says ‘This is only a test.’” Clarke lowered her voice a few octaves. “But this time it wasn’t a test. It was real.”

“Oh yeah...that. I know what that is. I just didn’t know what it was called. What did it say?” Micah asked.

“People are disappearing all over the country. Everyone is supposed to stay at home until further notice.”

“People are missing everywhere? Not just here? Did they say why?”

“No—”

“Do they still think it’s a cult?” Micah paused. “Maybe it’s aliens or terrorists...Or maybe it’s the Zombie Apocalypse.”

“If it’s the Zombie Apocalypse, then everyone would be zombies, not missing.”

“Maybe they’re all hibernating or something. Or maybe they’re smart zombies, and they’re getting organized.”

“An army of intelligent zombies...hmm.... I can’t wait to see the zombie dogs.” Clarke giggled.

“The dogs will be like drones. They’ll be killing machines,” Micah joked. He wanted to hear her laugh again.

“I don’t think I’m ready for the Zombie Apocalypse.” Clarke stopped twirling her hair and tucked the strand behind her ear.

“I am. I’ve been planning for this since I was a baby. I’m physically and mentally prepared.”

“Really? Since you were a baby?” Clarke giggled again.

“I’m serious. I can run a seven-minute mile. I even have weapons hidden in my basement. And I have a stash.”

“A stash of what…weed?”

“Nah, you can’t get high after the zombie uprising. You have to stay sharp, or you’ll be dead. I have some cash, food, batteries, gas.... You know, stuff like that.”

“Are you kidding me?” Clarke whipped her head towards Micah and stared at him.

Oops, maybe he shouldn’t have told her about that. “Um…my parents are into…emergency preparedness.”

“They’ve been planning for zombies?” Clarke scrunched her nose.

“No, not really…more like a natural disaster or a virus.” Or the End Times, but he would be keeping that one to himself for now. “But zombies are more fun to think about than a stupid virus.”

“You’re weird.” Clarke giggled.

The sound of Clarke’s laugh made Micah smile. It started all sweet and girly but ended with a snort. As she talked, he studied her face. Her pale complexion made her look fragile and doll-like, but her dark-brown eyes added an element of mystery, maybe even danger. The ringlets of her hair cascaded over her shoulders and bounced as she walked. Her hair wasn’t red, but it wasn’t brown either. It was a color in between. Micah had an uncontrollable urge to touch her.

“You’re cute.” He put his arm around Clarke’s shoulders and pulled her closer.

Clarke stopped walking and looked away from Micah. She quickly dropped to one knee and pretended to tie her shoe. When she stood back up, she moved a step away from him. Micah was disappointed but not discouraged. He had made his move too soon; that’s all. He would just have to wait before he tried again.

As the hours passed, more and more people ventured out into the streets. With no place to go and no direction, everyone else seemed to be pointlessly wandering too. Downtown, the boutiques and shops were closed as well as the movie theatre. Palmer’s Place appeared to be the only restaurant open, but they were only serving alcohol, no food.

Some people had posted homemade signs and pictures of their missing loved ones. Clarke looked at every picture, spending more time on the ones of the older people. “Maybe we should make some signs. I’m glad that so many other adults are missing and not just my dad. They’ll eventually have to start looking for the adults too.”

“I guess.” Only Micah knew his dad wasn’t with the other missing people. He distracted himself by looking at the pictures of the dogs. Did these dog owners actually think that their pets were a priority?

They walked for another block when Clarke pointed to the Starbucks. “Look…thank God, Micah…hurry up.” The pair jogged to the front of the coffee house.

“Yay, it’s open. I need coffee. I used the last of ours yesterday morning. Can we go in?” asked Clarke.

“Sure.” Micah opened the door and followed her in.

A man in his mid-twenties stood behind the counter. He looked more like a construction worker than like a barista. He had a big smile on his face and whistled as he wiped the counter. “What can I get ya? I have a few pastries left, and I’m brewing regular coffee only…nothing fancy. Oh, and no milk or cream.”

“I’ll have anything with caffeine.” Clarke put her hands to her throat, acting as if she were dying from dehydration.

“Same,” replied Micah.

“What size?” asked the barista.

“Large,” answered Clarke.

“Haven’t you ever been to Starbuck’s before?” Micah whispered to her. “We’ll have two ventis.”

“That will be twenty dollars,” said the barista.

“What! Are you kidding me?” protested Clarke.

“Hey, I don’t know when I’m going to get more supplies. I gotta do what I gotta do,” said the barista.

“I’d like to speak to a manager.” Clarke crossed her arms.

“Sorry, he’s missing. You’re stuck with me. Take it or leave it,” said the barista.

“It’s okay, Clarke. I have money.” Micah slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter.

The barista reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He pulled off the rubber band and wrapped Micah’s twenty around the outside. He carefully smoothed the wrinkles with his thumb, replaced the rubber band, and returned the roll to his pocket. He poured two ventis and handed the drinks to the pair. With their coffee in hand, Micah and Clarke took the two plush chairs in front of the window.

“That guy’s a crook. He probably doesn’t even work here,” Clarke said.

“At least you got some coffee. You’ll feel better after you get your caffeine fix,” Micah said.

“No wonder he looks so happy,” grumbled Clarke.

They sipped their drinks and watched the people outside the window. They could see the village hall across the street. A crowd began to gather on the steps of the building. At first, the group seemed disorganized, but before long, a leader emerged. A middle-aged man started to chant, “Where are the missing.... We want our families....” The rest of the crowd quickly joined in.

The construction-worker barista leaned on the wall next to Clarke and Micah. He looked out the window and chuckled. “You do know that they’re responsible for all this.”

“Wait. You think those people kidnapped everyone who’s missing?” Clarke scoffed.

“No, dummy. Not the crowd, the government,” said the barista.

Micah gagged and almost spit out his coffee.

“How is the government responsible?” Clarke put her cup down and crossed her arms.

“Hang on....” The barista went back behind the counter.

Clarke turned to Micah. “Thanks a lot.”

“What did I do?” Micah took another sip.

“It would have been nice to have a little back up. That’s all.”

Micah shrugged.

When the barista returned with his laptop, he placed it on the low table between Clarke and Micah. “You have to read this blog post written by Mr. Doomsday. He’s been blogging about the Apocalypse for a couple of years. He predicted all of this.”

Micah leaned forward and started to read.

This is it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Out of all my theories on how the world would end, I always believed that this one would be the most likely one.

The government has replaced natural selection. They are harvesting the members of our society that only exist with the help of modern medicine. The chronically sick have become a drain on the world economy.

So, you ask, “What about the children?” The children of this generation are among the sickest ever with food allergies, environmental allergies, autism, ADHD, diabetes. The list goes on. The only way to correct this problem is to start over. We can’t keep passing this flawed DNA onto the next generation. In a couple of generations, the human race will be a much weaker version of itself unless something is done to prevent its decline.

The government has tried to mend humanity with medicine and vaccines, but the illnesses keep coming. The scientist of the world will never be able to keep up. The only option is to purify the human race…

“I’m not reading about some conspiracy theory written by a complete lunatic. Mr. Doomsday…hah…right,” grumbled Clarke.

Micah swallowed hard. If that’s how she felt, would he ever be able to tell her about his family? “Who is this guy? Does he work for the government or something?” Maybe Mr. Doomsday was an old friend of his mother.