Mind Plague

Vincent L. Scarsella
 Copyright © 2019 Vincent L. Scarsella
Published May 2019 Digital Fiction Publishing Corp.
All rights reserved. 1st Edition
ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-1-989414-10-1
ISBN-13 (e-book): 978-1-989414-11-8
 DEDICATION

To my wife Rosanne
 Contents
Part One The Cabin
One Bikers
Two Gone Blank
Three Jack Flynn
Four Bad Actors
Five The New World Order
Six The Supermax
Seven The Day After the Plague
Eight Slave Gangs
Nine Ellie
Ten Breakfast
Eleven Salamanca
Twelve The Chase
Thirteen Gone
Part Two The Monastery
Fourteen Ghosts
Fifteen On the Road
Sixteen Brother Paul
Seventeen The Kingdom of God
Eighteen Brothers Jacob and Anthony
Nineteen Holy War
Twenty Captive
Twenty-One Brother Franklin
Twenty-Two The Prodigal Son
Twenty-Three Simon Peter
Twenty-Four The Note
Twenty-Five Coup d’état
Twenty-Six Betrayal
Twenty-Seven Thunder
Part Three The Supermax
Twenty-Eight Claysburg
Twenty-Nine 187 Albert Drive
Thirty Trading Places
Thirty-One The Commander of the Faithful
Thirty-Two In the Supermax
Thirty-Three Home Sweet Home
Thirty-Four Salah
Thirty-Five Bedtime
Thirty-Six Zawjas
Thirty-Seven Barbecue
Thirty-Eight Beheadings
Thirty-Nine The Ambush
Forty Trust Me
Forty-One Knocked Up
Forty-Two Finding Flynn
Forty-Three Escape
Part Four Mount Weather
Forty-Four Freedom
Forty-Five The Patrol
Forty-Six Courts
Forty-Seven Freedom Lost
Forty-Eight Twenty-Fifth Amendment
Forty-Nine Land of the Free and Home of the Brave
Fifty The Interrogation
Fifty-One If Only
Fifty-Two Tribunal
Fifty-Three Trial and Judgment
Fifty-Four Firing Squad
Fifty-Five Madame President
Fifty-Six Messages
Fifty-Seven Mouseketeers
Fifty-Eight Hit the Deck!
Fifty-Nine Attack
Sixty The Fall of America
Sixty-One Where Dreams Come True
Thank You!
Also from Digital Fiction
About the Author
Copyright
Part One
The Cabin
 One
Bikers

It was late afternoon in mid-June when the growl of a motorcycle speeding westbound along
New York State Route 417 woke Franklin Strock. He’d been napping on the worn, tan recliner
on the front porch of the A-frame about a tenth of a mile up a low, wooded hill from the road. As
Strock sat up and blinked down toward the approaching bike, the hardcover book he’d been
reading before falling asleep, The Brain Fog Fix, fell from his lap onto the wooden floor.
A woman in her early thirties with long, brown, unkempt hair, pushed open the screen door
and walked out onto the porch with a frown. She apparently had heard the roar of the motorcycle
engine as well. Turning to Strock, she pointed to the road and mumbled something. Strock stood,
put a finger to his lips to quiet her and whispered, “Shh! It’s a motorcycle.”
“Motor…cycle?” she whispered with wide, expectant eyes.
“Yes,” he said and nodded. “Motorcycle.”
Strock went over, put his arm around the woman and drew her to him. After peering down
toward the road for a time, they heard a scraping sound at the slight curve directly in front of the
cabin. Seconds later, there was the thump of something leaving the road and landing in the brush
somewhere off the shoulder, and then, except for the squawking of birds high up in the trees,
silence.
Strock turned to the woman and said, “It crashed, Ellie.” She nodded but didn’t quite seem to
understand. He broke away from her, jumped off the porch and started down the hill to where he
thought the crashed motorcycle might have landed. But a moment later, the roar of several
additional motorcycles approaching from the west along Route 417 stopped him in his tracks.
Slipping behind a tree, he looked back at Ellie standing with a frown on the porch and waved
both arms telling her to get down. Her eyes wide, she nodded and crouched down.
The roar of the approaching motorcycles reached a crescendo as they sped one-by-one past
the slight curve where the lone biker had lost control and careened off the road. To Strock’s
relief, the sound of the engines faded as the bikes continued their westward trek down Route 417.
Strock leaned against the tree and listened. Now, there was only the buzz of insects and caw
of birds in the lush, shadowy woods around him. After a breath, he pushed off the tree and
started down again toward the crashed motorcycle. There was no path leading through the brush
and trees, so he had to slash through branches to get down there. Finally, he heard a groan, and
after stopping and cocking his head to listen, he continued toward it.
The motorcycle, a Harley, mangled and smoking a bit, lay sideways on a crushed bush. A few
feet away, its rider was sprawled on his side, groaning as he clutched his left leg. He looked to be
in his mid-thirties—Strock’s age—and was a tall, good-looking man with disheveled brown hair,
a long, thick reddish beard, and tan, weathered features. He was dressed in a dull orange
jumpsuit.
After observing the man for a time, Strock drew a breath and emerged from the bushes.
Seeing Strock, the fallen biker tensed and drew himself back on his elbows a foot or so. He was
wincing in pain, and Strock immediately saw that the man’s left leg was bent at an unusual
angle.
 “Stay back,” the biker growled. His brow tightened as he reached into a leather sheath tied
around the calf of his right leg and pulled out a long knife with a thick black handle. He held up
the knife to warn Strock away.
Strock stopped and held up his hands. “No need for that, friend,” he said. “I came to help.”
“From where?” The man scowled and tried looking past Strock up the low hill behind him.
“Up the hill a ways,” Strock replied, nodding toward the hill. “My cabin.”
The man squinted past Strock as another wave of pain surged through him. “Damn idiot.”
After blowing out a breath, the man nodded down to his left leg and said, “Think it’s broke.”
“Looks it.” Strock frowned. “You know those other bikers?” He nodded toward the road.
“The ones that just drove past.”
“Yeah, I know them,” the biker said. “They’re after me. A bad bunch.” He shut his eyes
against the pain, then opened them. “I need to get out of here. They’ll eventually figure out they
lost me somewhere around here and circle back. And you don’t want them to find you either.”
“Who’s they?”
The man sighed in thought. Finally, he looked at Strock and said, “Like I said, a bad bunch.
Terrorists. Criminals.”
Strock shook his head not knowing what the man was talking about and also wondering what
he might have gotten himself into.
“Look,” the biker said, “all you need to do right now is help me out of here before they come
back. Up to your cabin. Then, I’ll explain everything.”
After mulling it over, Strock nodded and decided to help the man. What else could he do?
 Two
Gone Blank

“Before moving me,” the biker told Strock, his eyes tight with pain, “you need to hide the
bike.”
Strock looked across at the big broken Harley on its side and nodded. He went over and
inspected it, deciding that it likely needed significant repairs before being operable again. With a
grunt, he tried to lift it, but the huge motorcycle didn’t budge. Instead, he covered the bike with
branches and brush, then returned to the biker and said, “Alright, bike’s hidden. Now let me go
down and check the road.”
The man frowned and asked, “Check the road? What for?”
“Evidence of your crash.”
After a moment, the biker said, “Good idea. I almost hit a hunk of tree, rock or something. I
braked and swerved onto the shoulder, then skidded along the grass into the woods and landed
here.”
Strock nodded, then strode off toward Route 417. After thirty yards or so, he emerged from a
stand of trees and brush into a bright, muggy afternoon with the sky above the treetops a hazy
blue. At this point, the road curved slightly with the narrow, pale asphalt divided by fading
double-yellow lines. Strock stood along the shoulder, examining a silent, deserted stretch of road
in both directions. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves, buzzing of insects and an
occasional caw of a crow. Looking down at the road, Strock spotted what the biker must have
been talking about—a thick chunk of a branch a couple feet into the road near the bleached white
stripe marking the road from the shoulder.
Strock reached down and picked up the branch and thought about heaving it into the shallow
ditch along the shoulder, but thought better of it. Instead, he lowered it back down on the road. If
the other bikers returned, they might notice that the big, nasty hunk of tree along the edge of the
road that they’d avoided was now gone.
After replacing the branch, Strock saw no skid marks on the road surface near the spot where
the biker must have bucked and swerved. He then used his sneakers to rake out the gravel along
the shoulder that had been gouged out as the biker’s Harley had skidded sideways before
careening along the wet grass into the brush.
Moments later, back where the biker lay, Strock said, “It’s clean. No evidence of anything.
Whoever’s after you won’t know you went off the road and landed here. I left the chunk of
branch you almost hit out there on the road, in case they noticed it.”
The biker nodded and winced again. Then, he told Strock, “This leg is hurting bad, friend.”
After another wince, he added, “I need to get out of here, lay down somewhere.”
“Can you stand and hop along with me on your right leg?” Strock asked. “It’s a fairly long
way up to the cabin. Will be tough for me to carry you up there all the way.”
The biker looked up the incline of the hill leading to the cabin and sighed. He turned to Strock
and said, “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”
As Strock helped him to his feet, the biker grimaced and let out a growl. Then, as he steadied
himself on his right leg, Strock put the man’s left arm over his right shoulder.
 “Ready?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” the biker mumbled and closed his eyes as he leaned on Strock and hopped
slowly with him toward the cabin.
Fifteen minutes later, they were shambling into the clearing in front of the cabin. Ellie came
out on the porch and made some vague hand gestures and mumbled something that seemed her
attempt to communicate her surprise and worry at the sight of Strock helping a hurt stranger
toward the cabin.
Seeing her concern, Strock called, “It’s alright, Ellie.” He glanced at the biker who was still
grimacing in pain. He turned back to Ellie and told her, “Go inside.”
Ellie nodded and retreated into the cabin, frowning.
“She a zombie?” the biker asked. “Lost her mind?”
Strock nodded and with a sigh, he replied, “Yep. Gone blank.”
 Three
Jack Flynn

That’s what Strock called what had happened to Ellie: she’d gone blank. Becoming a
“zombie,” as the biker said, was another way of describing it, he supposed, but without the
mindless, eating-flesh feature of creatures rising from the dead of horror movies.
Actually, there was no good name for what had happened to Ellie and all the other blanks,
millions of them, billions maybe. How many, Strock wasn’t sure. Like all the rest of them, going
blank or becoming a zombie meant that Ellie had lost her mind, memory, and personality. Like
countless others, she’d somehow forgotten who she’d been or how to do the simplest things, like
getting out of bed, feeding herself, talking, walking, eating, washing or even relieving herself.
Like the rest of them, she’d somehow contracted a form of retrograde amnesia or something like
it. The Mind Plague was the name Strock had given to the sickness, or whatever had suddenly
and inexplicably erased most everyone’s mind and soul.
Why he and a few others in the great minority hadn’t come down with it, like the biker, was
an equal mystery. In fact, before the biker’s arrival, in the nine months since the Plague had
struck, Strock had seen only one other person who hadn’t gone blank.
“She your wife?”
“Yeah,” Strock said. “She was—is.”
What she was now was unclear. In the time before the Plague, Strock had no doubt who she
was. She was Eleanor Strock. He and her family and friends had always called her Ellie. He was
also confident that Ellie had loved him before the Plague. Now, he wasn’t sure. How do you
teach someone whose mind and soul have been erased to love you again? It was hard enough to
teach her how to eat and pee and shit and sleep and speak. But re-creating who she was, her
personality, that was another matter. That was why he’d been reading so many books and
medical texts on Alzheimer’s disease, retrograde amnesia and other mental deficiencies
involving the loss or memory and dementia, that he’d taken from the Salamanca and Olean
public libraries, and the bookstore in the Southern Tier Mall, like The Brain Fog Fix he’d been
reading when the biker crashed in front of the cabin.

Strock helped the biker across the narrow clearing to the staircase of the front porch and
slowly lifted him up its three steps, careful not to let him slip out of his grasp and fall and hurt
himself even worse. On the porch landing, Strock asked him, “You alright?”
After a nod, the man let out a rush of breath and said, “Yes.”
Strock nodded to the old, tan recliner a few feet across the porch and said, “Let’s sit you down
there for now.”
“Sounds like a plan,” the biker gasped.
They hopped over to the recliner, and as Strock gently lowered him onto it, the biker winced
and groaned. Strock turned and noticed Ellie peeking out of the front door.
“Come out, Ellie,” Strock told her. When she hesitated, he urged, “Come on.”
Instead, she backed again into the cabin. As the screen door snapped shut, Strock sighed and
said, “She’s like a child most times.”
 “Yeah, it’s tough bringing them back.”
That seemed an understatement to Strock. Bringing Ellie back had been going painfully slow.
At first, it was like caring for an infant. Feeding her. Bathing her. Cleaning her piss and poop
during the month it took to potty train her. Her slow progression to self-sufficiency was
frustrating, and he often had to stop himself from being hard on her, from scolding her too much.
She’d cry then like a child, not quite understanding what he wanted her to do or why he wanted
her to do it.
It took two months of constant attention before Ellie was able to feed herself, go to the
bathroom on her own, and dress herself. Teaching her how to talk became the next priority. He
got out books from the library for that. She learned the alphabet like a two-year-old, letter by
letter, and the sounds that made up the English language. He’d spent endless hours teaching her
how to pronounce things—her name, his name, a fork, spoon, plate, book, branch, and so on.
Still, after nine months, she was far from capable of caring for herself, let alone becoming the
woman, the loving wife, he’d known in the time before the Plague. Worst of all, she still seemed
a stranger to him, and he to her.
“What did she do?” the biker asked and winced again in pain.
“What?”
“Your wife,” he said, nodding back inside the cabin. “In her former life. What was she?”
“What’d she do?” Strock frowned, wondering about this small talk, and why the biker wanted
to know. “She was a legal assistant at a law firm. Glorified secretary, actually. I was a personal
injury lawyer in my former life, at another firm. I met her at a bar where lawyers and secretaries
used to hang out after work. You know, happy hour. We hit it off from the first moment. Fell in
love, I guess. That was five years ago.”
“Lucky guy,” he remarked. “She’s a pretty lady.”
That she was. Her maiden name was Marino. She got her dark skin and her angular Latin
cheekbones from her father. From her Irish mother, she had inherited brown eyes and reddish-
brown hair, and the cute freckles on her brow and forehead.
“At least you still have her,” the biker remarked. “I was away when it happened. My wife and
two daughters didn’t make it.”
“Sorry about that,” Strock said. He wanted to learn more, where he’d been, why he hadn’t
been able to get to them, why he was running from a biker gang, and what was going on in the
greater world beyond these secluded parts, outside the safety of the cabin, but he felt that
attending to the Biker’s leg took priority over learning his story. The biker had turned quite pale
by now and his grimaces more pronounced, making Strock worry that the man might go into
shock and pass out.
“I need to set that leg,” Strock said.
“You know how? You said you were a lawyer, not a doctor.”
“I’ve got some survival books that teach you how to do stuff like that. You know—how to
survive off the grid. Like start a fire, skin a deer. Set a fracture.”
The man frowned and said, “From books, you think you can set my leg.”
“Yes, from books,” Strock said. He started for the cabin but stopped after a couple steps,
turned and looked back at the man. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Jack Flynn,” the man said, then grimaced again.
“Hi, Jack,” Strock replied. “I’m Franklin Strock. Frank for short.”
The man had closed his eyes, tight. When he opened them, he drew a breath, nodded, then
said, “Hi, Frank. And thank you. For helping me.”
“You’re welcome,” Strock said. “Be right back.”
Strock entered the cabin and almost ran into Ellie who was standing at the screen door
peeking out at them. “Ellie,” he said and laughed. He nodded outside. “Bring the man a glass of
water. His name is Jack Flynn.”
Ellie nodded and tried to repeat the name. “Jack…Flynn.”
“Yes, Jack Flynn. Now get a glass of water and bring it out to him. Okay?”
She frowned, nodded curtly, then said, “Yes, okay. Water. A glass of water.”
 Four
Bad Actors

The A-frame had a spacious main room that served as a combination living room and kitchen.
The living room area was furnished with a second-hand tan couch and matching armchair and
two oak end-tables with antique lamps. In the far-left corner was a pot belly stove with a pipe
leading through the roof to a brick chimney. The kitchen occupied a narrow space to the right of
the living room with cabinets above a red-speckled Formica counter next to a small propane-
fueled four-burner stove and a squat white refrigerator.
A narrow, dark hallway led back a few steps to a cramped bathroom and beyond it, to two
small bedrooms. Strock walked back to the bedroom where he and Ellie slept, and after a brief
search of a three-shelf bookcase, he pulled out three survivalist books he’d taken from the
Salamanca public library. He carried them back to the porch and found Ellie kneeling at Flynn’s
side waiting for him to finish the glass of water she’d brought him. After Flynn handed the glass
to her, she gave a shy smile and lowered her gaze. Strock lifted Ellie to her feet and told her to
go inside and fetch a bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and another
glass of water. As Ellie left them with an eager nod and smile, Strock said, “She seems smitten
with you.”
Flynn frowned up at him and said, “It’s just having somebody new around.”
Strock nodded and sat in the lawn chair next to the recliner and started flipping through one of
the survivalist books.
“You really gonna try and fix my leg from a book?”
Strock looked up from the book and asked, “You got a better idea? Maybe I can drive you to a
hospital. Oh, there aren’t any hospitals.”
Flynn grimaced, then gave a short, agreeable nod as Strock returned to reading the relevant
section of the book instructing him how to fix a fractured leg. Finally, he stood and looked down
at Flynn.
“You figure it out?” Flynn asked.
“I think so,” Strock told him. “Actually, doesn’t look that difficult.”
With a laugh, Flynn said, “Easy for you to say. It’s not your leg.”
Leaning down, Strock massaged the area of Flynn’s lower leg where it was obvious the tibia
bone had split in two. Fortunately for Flynn, the bone hadn’t broken through the skin. Flynn
winced, groaned, and grabbed onto Strock’s right arm as Strock probed the skin above the
broken bone.
“Ow, man,” Flynn groaned, “that hurts.”
Finally, Strock let go, stood and said, “Well, at least it’s a closed fracture. Easier to treat.”
“So treat it. Get it over with.”
Ellie exited the cabin with an eager expression holding the bottle of ibuprofen and the glass of
water. Strock took the ibuprofen and after twisting open the cap, fished out six pills. He handed
them to Flynn and told Ellie to give him the glass of water.
“These should help,” Strock said, and Flynn swallowed down the pills as Strock lifted one of
the books and read for a while longer.
 “So now what? You know what you’re doing?”
After a time, Strock looked up. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “First, I even out the bones and then
splint the leg.”
“Even out the bones? That sounds painful.”
“Probably will be. That’s what the pills are for.” Strock opened the book before Flynn and
pointed to a diagram of the procedure. “See. Looks fairly easy.”
Squinting at the diagram of a prone man with a splint on a straight leg, he said, “Yeah, piece
of cake.”
“First, I need to find a couple branches,” Strock said. “Couple inches thick, it says, to serve as
the splints that’ll hold the fractured segments of bone in place so they can heal.” He looked
toward the stand of trees down a slight drop about ten yards or so across the clearing in front of
the cabin. Reading from the book, Strock added, “One of the branches needs to be set under your
left armpit, down the length of your left leg, while the other needs to be placed from your crotch
down to your left foot. I need a shorter piece, same diameter—roughly two inches—to connect
the two splints. With some masking tape, I’ll secure the splints to your body, and then, with time,
your fracture can heal.”
Flynn nodded but didn’t look optimistic.
Strock looked up, laid the book on the floor, and said, “Alright, let me get what I need.”
He scurried off the porch and across the clearing and disappeared into the stand of trees. Ten
minutes later, he returned with two sturdy looking branches, each at least two inches around, and
another shorter branch, and set them on the porch floor. He retrieved a roll of masking tape, a
handsaw, and scissors from the cabin. He took some rough measurements of Flynn’s left flank
and started cutting the branches to size as he glanced down at the survival handbook open on the
seat of the lawn chair. All the while, Ellie sat cross-legged on the porch eagerly watching Strock
work while Flynn leaned back on the recliner and closed his eyes, letting the ibuprofen work its
magic on his aching lower left leg.
With the splints cut, Strock stood up with them and smiled. “Alright. Looks just like in the
drawing.” He looked down at Flynn and said, “Ready?”
Flynn sighed as Strock approached him. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Ready. Now what?”
“Now,” Strock said, “I set the break.”

It took Strock nearly an hour to set the break and affix the splint. During that time, Flynn was
a brave patient. Before starting, Strock warned Flynn that, according to the book, as he
connected the two broken parts of bone by forcibly massaging the skin above them, it would
likely hurt and hurt bad.
“I’ve been trained to handle pain,” Flynn boasted, then suggested, “But give me something to
put in my mouth, a piece of cloth, something to bite down on.”
Strock nodded, got a washrag from the cabin and gave it to him. Flynn was true to his word.
As Strock set his leg and applied the splint, he mumbled and groaned, squeezed his hands into
fists along the sides of the recliner, and tensed a few times, but held still for the most part and
allowed Strock to do what he needed to do. Afterward, Strock stood over Flynn, satisfied with
his work.
“See,” Strock said, “it wasn’t that bad. Maybe I should have been a doctor instead of suing
them.”
Flynn shrugged glumly and whispered, “Wouldn’t give up your day job quite yet.”
 “All you need is a few days’ rest. Should heal up fine.”
“Thank you, Doctor Frank,” Flynn said. “But right now, it hurts like hell.”
“Broken bones tend to do that,” Strock remarked. “The ibuprofen should help. We’ve got
plenty of that. When I go out for more provisions tomorrow, I’ll stop at the lumber store and get
some two-by-fours and re-splint your leg. I doubt those branches will hold.”
In the next moment, a low gurgle of motorcycle engines wafted up from somewhere along
Route 417 heading east toward the cabin.
“Shit, hear that?” Flynn hissed. “They figured they lost me around here and are back-tracking.
See if they can sniff my scent. Those bastards don’t quit.”
“Who are they anyway, those bastards?”
“Like I said, bad actors.”
The roar of the approaching bikes compelled Ellie to put her hands over her ears and let out a
whimper. After glancing back at Flynn, Strock went over to her and pulled her down to a crouch.
As he bent down with her, he whispered, “It’s alright, Ellie.”
Finally, the biker gang roared past the mild bend where Flynn had gone off the road, avoiding
the chunk of the tree Strock had left there, and continued east along Route 417. Seconds later,
when the sound of the bikes diminished to nothing, Strock started to lift Ellie up. But as he did
so, the low roar of the motorcycles rose up again and grew louder. The bikers had turned around
and were coming back. Before Strock or Flynn had time to react or make a comment, the
motorcycles had stopped at the curve where Flynn had struck the branch.
Tight-lipped, Strock turned to Flynn.
“You have any guns?” Flynn whispered.
But in the next moment, the motorcycles roared to life again, and the gang sped off heading
westbound again down Route 417.
After the roar had faded, Strock stood up with Ellie and patted her long, disheveled reddish-
brown hair. He noticed her sneaking a look at Flynn, their strapping, handsome, hurt visitor
stretched out on the recliner with the broken leg secured by a wilderness splint. She was clearly
captivated by the stranger, the first human she’d encountered, other than Strock, during the long
months at the cabin. Strock frowned. Ellie’s infatuation with Flynn bothered him. It could only
spell trouble, he thought, and it brought home quite suddenly and clearly that she was still
childlike, and worse, that he’d probably been unsuccessful thus far in resurrecting her love for
him.
“Omar hasn’t figured out what happened,” Flynn said. “How he lost me. But something’s
telling him it was around here. It’s eating at him for sure.”
“Who’s Omar?”
“The bikers’ leader. The only one of them who isn’t a zombie.”
“So, you think they’re coming back, eventually?”
“I don’t know,” Flynn said with a shrug. After a moment, he asked, “You have any guns?”
“Yes, of course,” Strock said. “Shotgun, a couple rifles, some pistols. I’ve shot some deer, a
turkey with them.”
“Well, you may need them pretty soon for shooting something else.”
That was the first time, but not the last, when Strock would regret having gone down and
helped Flynn that afternoon.
 Five
The New World Order

After taking Ellie over and sitting her down on the lawn chair next to the recliner, Strock
unfolded a second chair from the other side of the porch and sat down next to Ellie. Leaning
toward Flynn, he said, “I know you’re hurting, but I need to know what’s going on. Who those
bikers are and why they’re after you. Who you are, for that matter. What’s happening out there
in the real world.”
“What’s happening?” As Flynn pushed himself up on the recliner to get as comfortable as he
could get in his condition, he winced in pain. After a breath, he said, “A new world order, that’s
what’s happening.”
“So, tell me about it, this new world order.”
“Well, you already know about the disease,” Flynn began, “or whatever it is that made almost
everyone—ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of humanity—lose their minds.”
Strock nodded. Of course, he knew. He was living it. “Yeah, they went blank,” he said.
“That’s what I call it.”
Flynn nodded and said, “Good name for it. We called them zombies. Anyway, most of them
who went blank, who became zombies, you know…well, they died.”
Again, Strock nodded. He knew that as well. He’d seen hundreds of dead, rotting corpses in
the streets, in beds, everywhere, during his travels to nearby towns for food and supplies.
“They died because they couldn’t think anymore,” Flynn said. “They couldn’t remember how
to get out of bed, eat, take care of themselves. Unlike her,” he went on, glancing at Ellie, who
smiled up at him before he looked back at Strock, “they didn’t have someone around to save
them—to help them get out of bed, help them eat. So most everyone in the United States, at least,
who were in bed when it happened early that morning, stayed in bed, and they remained in bed,
and died there.”
“Yeah, I know,” Strock added dryly. “I’ve seen it. Hundreds of dead bodies in beds who
never woke up.”
“No, they woke up,” Flynn said. “They just didn’t know what to do next, how to get out of
bed.” Strock nodded as Flynn went on, “And those who were up and around in America, and the
rest of the world, when the disease struck, couldn’t think either—went blank as you say, where
they stood. They remained fixated, in a strange kind of stupor, stood in place and stopped doing
whatever they were doing; they just kept walking or driving—over cliffs, into walls, off the road,
without a clue where they’d been, or where they were going. Eventually, they weakened and
starved to death or fell where they stood. The car they were driving when they lost their minds
crashed because they forgot how to drive it, or the plane in which they’d been flying went down
because the pilot forgot how to fly.”
Flynn sighed and drifted off thinking about all the rest of it, the crazy disasters that had
befallen the stricken.

The morning it had happened, Strock had opened his eyes and stretched in bed and after a
time, turned to Ellie and patted her shoulder. It was a Thursday, seven-ten, time to get up and
shave and shower and dress for work, slurp down a cup of coffee, a slice of toast, and head out
the door for whatever awaited him at the office. But Ellie didn’t move under his touch that
morning. She just laid there, staring up at nothing.
“Ellie?” Nothing. No response. Frowning, he turned to her and nudged her shoulder, then
reached under the covers and massaged her breasts. Still, nothing. She was looking up, staring at
the ceiling. “Ellie?”
He kept calling her, gently pushing her, getting annoyed, then panicky. “This isn’t funny, El.”
But on and on it went, her dumb look, eyes blinking without a seeming thought behind them.
“Ellie, what the hell is going on?” He shook and shook her and still nothing. Finally, he got out
of bed and tramped over to her side and tried again for some minutes to rouse her without getting
anywhere. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Finally, he lifted her out of bed, carried her downstairs and gently lowered her onto the couch.
He stood back and looked down at her laying there, staring up at nothing.
“Ellie, what…is…the…matter?”
Nothing.
It seemed too silent in the house, everywhere. He turned on the TV and stared back at a blank
screen. He turned on the radio and got static. He went outside and was struck by an eerie silence,
the total lack of human voices or sounds. No one was about. All the houses were dim and quiet.
No one seemed alive.
Strock rushed next door to the Remsler’s house and found Joe and Helen still in the king-
sized bed in their spacious master bedroom, and like Ellie, they were on their backs, eyes wide
open, staring up at the ceiling. He went around the bed and shook Joe, but he didn’t stir. Then he
went around to Helen’s side and got the same result. Strock started yelling at them. But that
didn’t work either, didn’t bring them out of it. They continued staring up at the ceiling, seeing
nothing it seemed. What kind of sick joke are they playing? Strock had thought, a part of him
wondering if this was simply a strange, vivid nightmare.
Finally, Strock put his arms under Joe’s armpits, pulled him out of bed and let his bare feet
fall to the floor, then dragged him out of the bedroom and into the hallway to the second story
landing. But out there, he still couldn’t get Joe up and on his feet. Frantic now with the oddness
of what was going on, Strock left Remsler on the carpet and went to the bedroom down the hall
and found Charles, their thirteen-year-old son, still in his bed, staring up at nothing. Strock shook
him and found that like his parents, he wouldn’t snap out of it. They weren’t sleeping or
daydreaming, it was something other than that. Far beyond it. Their eyes were open the whole
time. They were up, awake. But they seemed unable to recognize anything that they saw.
Strock’s entreaties and shouts and nudges meant nothing, had no effect. They wouldn’t budge.
When he returned home, Ellie was still laying on the couch with that blank stare. After trying
again to rouse her, he ventured back outside and found the same eerie silence. The upscale
neighborhood was deathly silent as the sun rose up in a crystal blue sky that chilly Thursday
morning in late October, just a few days before Halloween. No planes flew overhead, no cars
drove down the wide streets on their way to work that morning.
What was equally disturbing was that Strock found no one like himself. There was no one else
awake, alert. Alive.

“I was away from home,” Flynn said after a time. “On a mission, overseas, in Berlin.” He
looked at Strock. “I’m an intel agent, part of an NSA unit—the National Security Agency. Or
former National Security Agency. We were monitoring a terror cell.” He laughed. “Doesn’t
matter now. None of it. Idiots forgot they were terrorists, the religious belief they were killing
people over meant nothing to them now.” He sighed. “That morning, my colleagues became
zombies—all five of them. One minute, we were meeting in the apartment, talking over how we
were going to take down the cell.” He snapped his fingers. “And the next, Rivera, he goes
zombie, in the middle of a sentence. Just stares at me. ‘Juan?’ I say to him and laugh, as if he’s
daydreaming. But he doesn’t come out of it, even when I snap my fingers across his zombie
eyes. Just sits there. Same with Jepson. She starts to slump forward, and they both give me the
silent treatment. I laugh and say, ‘What’s with you two?’ Of course, they don’t answer. Nothing.
“Then, I hear the crashes, explosions, and I think World War Three has started. Cars are
running into each other, and into buildings for no reason, jet planes are falling out of the sky.
Buildings here and there are exploding. Nothing works. Not the TV, radio. Nothing. But it
wasn’t World War Three. It was this, some kind of mind warp no one can explain. The Event.
“After a day or so, I managed to contact some of my people, intel types around the continent,
in Germany and Sweden, France and Italy, who, like me, hadn’t lost their minds and become
zombies. The following week, we linked up, eight of us in all, including my zombies, Rivera and
Jepson. One of the others could fly a plane, and we commandeered a Bombardier Global Express
jet from the Berlin airport and flew back to the states, landing at a desolate Dulles Airport
outside DC a week after the Event struck.
“During our trip across the Atlantic, we learned that an outpost of US authority had survived
in a shelter known as the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center under one of northern
Virginia’s Blue Ridge mountains. Several hundred politicians and military officers and various
government personnel, and even some ordinary civilians had been gathered up and were now
living underground under martial law.
“Upon landing at Dulles, we headed there. The place was stocked with supplies and provided
a comfortable enough staging area in the attempt by our new leaders to try and establish some
semblance of authority and civilization, and of course, to go out and find and save as many
survivors and zombies as we could. Though, after a while, that became a hopeless cause. There
were some doctors and other scientists who somehow made it into the Mount as well, and they
went straight to work trying to figure out what the hell had caused the Event.”
“The Mind Plague,” said Strock. “That’s what I call it.”
After a nod, Flynn continued, “People kept trickling in for a few weeks, those who’d been
immune to the plague, or whatever, and our numbers swelled to just over fifteen hundred, where
it presently stands. Of that number, roughly a thousand—mostly men, but a few women and
children, were unaffected by it. The others, five hundred or so, are zombies whose minds, like
your Ellie’s, they’re trying to resurrect.”
“Fifteen hundred?” Strock asked. “That’s it? Out of three hundred thirty million Americans?”
“Well, it’s estimated that there are another fifty to a hundred-thousand out there across the
country who either like you, didn’t hear our broadcasts out of Mount Weather, or couldn’t make
the trip. Worldwide, the guess is maybe five million human souls survived.”
Five million, thought Strock, out of seven billion!
“Did President Krank survive?”
“Yes, but he was among the mindless, a zombie,” Flynn said. “He was found in his bed, next
to the First Lady, who had also gone zombie. They were taken to Mount Weather and are
undergoing, like your wife, retraining. But like your wife, it’s been a slow process waking them
up, and Krank’s in no condition to resume the presidency, if he ever will.
“The military leaders down there,” Flynn went on, “led by General Radley, have declared
martial law. I can tell you firsthand from seeing him in action, he’s one smart, tough son-of-a-
bitch. The general sent out patrols to make sure that nuke power plants as far as St. Louis didn’t
blow. Far as I know, we haven’t lost one yet.”
Strock stared off, trying to fathom Flynn’s news. He was glad to learn that the United States
of America lived and apparently still operated on the same principles as the Old America—life,
liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Now, he was suddenly hopeful that things might turn out
alright, that the clock might be turned back, though he realized that things would never be the
same. As Flynn had put it, they were living in a new world order.
“The same day after checking in at Mount Weather,” Flynn continued, “I left to find my wife
and kids. They lived in Centerville, not far from DC, and also not far from the Mount.” He
sighed and looked away, gathered himself, then turned to Strock. “What I found wasn’t good.
Like millions, billions, of others, they’d died in bed, starved to death. They were goddamned
bloated, ugly corpses by the time I got home.”
“I’m sorry,” Strock said, and Flynn gave a nod, gulped down his sorrow, and turned away.
Finally, Flynn looked back at Strock and said, “Anyway, what we think now is that the Event
—when ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of humanity lost their minds and memories—
happened simultaneously around the world, just before six in the morning eastern standard time.
It happened everywhere else on the planet and affected not only humans but some animal species
as well. The scientists studying the phenomenon are stumped as to what caused it, though there
are theories. Cosmic rays, a virus, natural or manmade.”
After a sigh, he finished, “No one knows for sure, and I think we may never know.”
 Six
The Supermax

“So, what brings you here, to this cabin, from Mount… what was it?”
“Mount Weather,” Flynn said. “What brought me? Ever hear of ADX Cumberland?” After
Strock gave a short shrug, indicating that he hadn’t, Flynn said, “It’s a federal prison in
Cumberland, Maryland, about two hours south of here. It’s a Supermax—a special maximum-
security prison for the most dangerous criminals – you know, terrorists, serial killers. The worst
of the worst.” He winced in pain and wiggled a moment before continuing, “That’s where I’m
coming from.”
Strock shook his head, not getting it.
“See, the military guys governing Mount Weather worried about who might have kept their
minds and taken over some nearby prisons, especially one of the most notorious of all, the
Cumberland Supermax,” Flynn explained. “There was a sizeable group of Muslim terrorists
there, you know, the worst radicals advocating the murder of nonbelievers—infidels—us, and
the establishment of a worldwide caliphate, that sort of thing. They’d been involved in some
nasty terror plots over the last few years, earning them life prison sentences.
“Anyway, the idea of some Iman who hadn’t been affected by the disease gaining control over
an entire prison population, especially that one, was understandably worrisome to General
Radley and his advisors. So, a patrol was sent out—it’s only a couple hours’ drive from the
Mount to the prison—to scout out what was going on. And what they reported, General Radley
and his advisors didn’t like. It appeared that the Muslim terrorists had indeed gained control of
the Supermax.
“So, Colonel Denton, who was in command of our intel section, ordered me to take one of our
cars and travel up to Cumberland, see if I could plant myself inside the prison to find out exactly
what was going on in there, stay ten days, a couple weeks, then slip out again and return back to
the Mount and make my report.” He sighed and continued, “And what I found isn’t good. Only, I
haven’t been able to make my report.”
“How’d you get inside in the first place?” Strock said. “I mean, you couldn’t simply walk in
the front door?”
“No, of course not. Once I got there, I hid in the woods around the prison for a couple days. I
noticed that some of the prisoners—zombies no doubt—were being sent to work on farms in the
hills outside Cumberland—you know, working in the fields around the prison, plowing, planting
corn, rounding up livestock, cows and sheep and such.
“After a couple days watching them, I came up with a plan. Take out one of the inmate
zombies and take his place. Some of them were off on their own in secluded parts of the fields.
One day about a week after I arrived, I jumped one who was off working alone from behind and
used a choke hold to break his neck. Straight from the agent training manual. It was quick,
painless.
“After that, I put on his prison jumpsuit, then dug a shallow grave and buried him as quick as
I could, considering the circumstances. After that, I tried to blend in with the rest of the crew,
and somehow, I pulled it off. I blended in. Zombies are zombies, interchangeable, and with their
blank stares and even temperaments, they tend to look alike and are fairly easy to imitate.”
Flynn tugged at his thick, dark beard and smiled. “And, having grown this over the last few
weeks since the Event struck didn’t hurt. Beards like this are standard issue for Muslims
terrorists.”
“So, you got inside the prison, the Supermax,” Strock said. “Then what? What brought you up
here, chased by that biker gang.”
“The gang is from there, the prison,” Flynn explained. “Five zombie inmates led by a terrorist
by the name of Osama Omar. He isn’t a zombie. He’s a disciple of the Supermax’s leader, a
Sunni Salafi jihadist, Sheik Abu al-Shahab. He was sent to ADX Cumberland for life in the mid-
2000s for his role in 9/11 and some other terror plots in the US after that. And he’s vowed to
convert, by violence if necessary, all of what’s left of humanity to his radical version of Islam.
“When the Event struck,” Flynn went on, “he realized what had happened and went about
taking over the prison. He saved as many of the zombie inmates as he could, among the vilest
human beings on the planet, numbering around five hundred or so. There are ten or so inmates
who didn’t go mindless, many of them Islamic terrorists like him, but a few who aren’t. They’ve
become his disciples in there, and the zombie inmates have become their slaves. They’ve been
brainwashed to accept Shahab’s violent version of Islam, an army dedicated to spreading that
version to the rest of mankind. From what I observed while inside, I think Shahab’s in touch with
other pockets of Islamists who’ve survived out in the Middle East, and elsewhere, and that he
intends to join up with them at some point to force Islam on the remaining survivors and
establish a worldwide theocracy.
“Shahab’s a brilliant guy, with an IQ way up there. A warrior genius, you might say. He’s got
these stark, sharp features, long black hair, a thick beard, of course, and these dark, narrow eyes
that sear right through you. He sees himself as the reincarnation of Mohammed himself.”
After a sigh, Flynn added, “And he engages in whispering.”
“Whispering?”
“Yes, whispering, a form of hypnotism, mind control, I guess, using sounds and words and
melodies whispered into a person’s ear. It’s akin to what so-called horse whisperers do to calm
horses that have suffered a traumatic injury or event. Shahab’s a people whisperer.
“Anyway, through his force of will, and this whispering technique, his conversion of the
zombie inmates has been most effective. With each passing day, these inmates gain more and
more of their mental faculties, and they are guided in what they should believe and do and think,
by him.
“Now, Shahab appears ready to branch out from the prison and start his campaign of conquest
and convert the rest of us to his brand of Islam,” Flynn continued. “And if he finds out about the
Mount, he’ll take his army up there and attack. That’s what I was going to report to General
Radley. Only, I never got the chance. One of the disciples of al-Shahab, Ibrahim al-Badri,
suspected that there was something different about me. I guess it was harder than I thought to
impersonate a zombie.
“Anyway, Badri convinced Shahab to confront me. And yesterday morning, when he and
Shahab did just that, I saw what was coming and bolted. I commandeered the Harley from a lot
outside the prison and overpowered an inmate zombie at the front gate. Somehow, I made it to
Interstate 99 with Osama Omar and his biker gang chasing after me. They were still hot on my
heels when I exited onto Route 417 up around here. They were gaining on me, and I was almost
out of gas, when I crashed. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
 Seven
The Day After the Plague

“And you?” Flynn asked after a time. “How’d you find yourself at the end of the world.”
“Like everyone else who survived, I experienced a nightmare of biblical proportions,” Strock
replied. “A nightmare from which I have yet to awaken.”
For the next five minutes, Strock soberly narrated his experiences upon awakening the
morning of the Mind Plague: his finding Ellie, going over to the Remsler’s place, wandering in
the awful silence of his neighborhood.
“I finally got Ellie into a car,” he went on, “and started driving, hardly able to believe what I
was seeing. The radio was still nothing but static, and the car crashes and people standing like
statues, in some kind of blind stupor. Unable to figure out what else to do, I drove to the nearest
hospital, and after locking Ellie inside the car, I ventured inside.”
After another short laugh, he continued, “What a scene the ER was. People slumped over in
their chairs, just sitting there, with that same blank expression, a few others slumped on the floor.
Alarms going off on instruments everywhere.
“Finally, I ran into somebody, an actual guy who, like me, hadn’t gone blank. Except, he was
in serious panic mode. He was searching for a doctor, anyone who could help him. He grabbed
me and asked if I knew how to deliver a baby. That his wife was in delivery right now. She’d
been screaming and pushing out the baby one moment, and then, just stopped.
“I went up there with him to the delivery room, and he was right. She was just lying there,
staring forward. A nurse was standing next to her bed, with the same blank expression as the
others. The guy kept asking me what to do, as if I knew. I didn’t, but he kept hounding me.
Finally, I pushed away from him and ran out of there. The horror of it was, I thought I could hear
the unborn child screaming from his blank mother’s belly. And I heard a couple other cries,
maybe infants from the nursery whose minds hadn’t gone blank, desperate for a feeding or the
touch of human hands that would never come.”
Strock fell silent for a time, staring forward now, blanking out but not in the horrible, dead-
brain way he’d witnessed from hundreds of people that first morning of the plague.
“I’ll never get that out of my head,” he went on. “I’ll never forgive myself for not doing
something to help that guy, the babies.” He swallowed, drew in a breath. “Driving away from the
hospital, the idea popped into my head that I should get the hell away from there, run for the
hills, hide out here, at my cousin Stevie’s hunting cabin. I used to go down there with him and
his dad, my Uncle Paul, when we were kids, teenagers. My dad had died, and Uncle Paul had
become like a father to me. We’d hunt, fish and as we got older, Uncle Paul would let Stevie and
me drink a couple beers with him. And sometimes, Stevie and I would sneak off and smoke grass
out in the woods. Eventually, I went off to college and law school, and Stevie and I grew apart.
But that morning, I knew he still had the cabin.
“I raced home from the hospital, packed some things, then drove sixty miles down here, and
the rest, as you say, is history. We’ve been here ever since.
“Along the way, I saw more of what I’d been seeing that morning, more of the craziness. Cars
off the road, crashed into trees, smoldering wrecks, nothing working. Nothing on the radio
except static. Smoke billowing up all over the place. Some houses and buildings on fire. And
except for that poor guy at the hospital, I found no one else with a working brain who could
think.
“I couldn’t help myself, but I had to drive out to one of the places where smoke was really
billowing up to the sky. It was about five miles off the New York State Thruway, somewhere
near Fredonia, a college town. When I got there, I saw what was causing the smoke. A jetliner
had crashed, and the debris was scattered across a farmer’s field. There was nothing but
wreckage and smoke and the acrid smell of jet fuel. I couldn’t help but watch it for a time, and
then, I pulled myself away.”
“I saw a couple of those, too,” Flynn commented and shook his head. “Jets gone down. A
horrible sight.”
Strock nodded and after a sigh, continued. “Anyway, I finally made it down here. I knew the
place was secluded, and better yet, it couldn’t be seen from the road. A safe place.” He sighed
again and thought before adding, “Since we’ve come, I’ve been raiding supermarkets and
hardware stores and houses in nearby towns every couple of weeks. The gas generators have
given us at least a semblance of civilized life, lights and a way to watch old DVDs. I’ve collected
four of them, the generators, and stored a bunch of gasoline cans after finally figuring out how to
pump it out of the tanks at various gas stations.
“And we eat pretty well. There’s plenty of food out there, in the supermarkets, houses.
Canned stuff, crackers, cereal, crap like that. And we managed to keep warm this past winter.
The pot belly stove in the main room works pretty well, and I bought a couple electric heaters to
supplement it. It can get damned cold and snowy in these parts November through March, even
into April and May, but thankfully, we had a pretty mild winter this last one. Not much snow but
still damp and rainy.
“Once we were settled down here,” Strock went on, “a lot of my time’s been spent trying to
bring Ellie back.”
“How long you two been married?”
“Four years,” Strock replied. He looked at Ellie and sighed, then turned back to Flynn. “I
married late, at thirty-two. She’d been divorced.” He laughed and said, “It was love at first sight,
for me anyway. For her, it took a while, several dates, almost six months, to fall in love I guess,
and agree to marry me. Anyway, I think I got the better of the deal. As you can see,” he said,
nodding to Ellie, “she’s one pretty lady. Beyond anything I deserve. And smart, at least before
her brain was washed out by the Plague. I was talking her into going to law school when that
happened, then forming a partnership with me.”
Strock looked at Ellie, smiled and patted her head and she smiled up at him. With a sigh,
Strock looked back at Flynn and said, “But, as I said, and as you can see, it’s been a slow process
bringing her back.”

Even now, Strock knew, after all these months, Ellie hadn’t advanced very far. After nine
months, she still had that bewildered, somewhat frightened look, like one of those white women
who’d been rescued from the Comanche Indians in the wild west of the 1840s. But unlike such a
white woman, who at least had memories from the time before she was captured, Ellie’s
memories and thoughts from the time before the Plague seemed to have been erased. They were
gone, so there was nothing to tap into and bring back.
“After a couple weeks down here,” Strock went on, “I trekked back up home with Ellie to
grab some things we’d left behind, some clothes and other stuff I thought we’d need. During the
packing, I came across our photo albums, wedding pictures and so many others taken over the
years. You know, happy times, our trips to Disney World and Aruba, family gatherings at
Christmas and Thanksgiving, barbecues, picnics, that sort of thing. I even found a couple DVDs
we’d made.
“Back at the cabin, I spent hours showing Ellie the pictures. I played the DVDs over and over
on the TV, hoping that seeing herself with me and other people she’d known and loved would
help wake her up to who she was. But they didn’t. After a few weeks, I stopped trying. All they
did was make her restless and bored instead of igniting old memories.” He laughed and went on,
“But me, I liked looking at the old photos and watching the old DVDs from time to time,
relishing our happy expressions and exchanges of love, in the time before the world ended.
Seeing the people we’d loved and lost. My parents. God only knows what happened to them
down in Arizona. I pined, still pine, for those days even though back then I hadn’t thought I had
it so great.”
“We all do that,” Flynn chimed in, thinking of his lost wife and daughters. “Pine for the old
days.”
“Bottom line,” Strock went on, glancing over at Ellie, “I’ve been unsuccessful in helping Ellie
regain who she was before the Plague.”
He looked back at Flynn and fell silent. That was what bothered and saddened Strock the
most. Ellie’s personality hadn’t come back. She’d become an entirely different person, no longer
the woman who’d been his wife of four years, the woman he still loved.
After a time, Flynn said, “Yes, it’s slow bringing them back.”
Strock shrugged but soon noticed that Ellie was staring past him, up at Flynn again. If love or
lust were capable of forming in her heart, Strock feared such sentiments were presently being
directed at Flynn and not him. And that, he did not like.
“How’s that leg doing?” he asked.
Flynn gave a weak laugh and whispered, “Hurts.”
Strock nodded and said, “I’ll get you a couple more ibuprofens. Take them and try to get
some sleep. You’ve had a long day. When you wake up, we’ll have dinner and talk more about
the end of the world and the new world order.”
 Eight
Slave Gangs

Strock decided against grilling a venison steak from the several deer he’d shot over the last
few months, or the catch of smallmouth bass he’d fished out of the Allegheny River a couple
days ago. He had taken a small, brand new freezer from an appliance store in Salamanca and
brought it up to the cabin in his two-year-old Land Rover Evoque. With plenty of gas to keep his
generators going to keep the freezer running for the venison and fish, he’d not had to resort to
alternative methods of preserving food that he’d read about in the survival books, like drying or
smoking them. But the smoke from the propane barbecue grill he’d taken from a hardware store
might drift up above the treetops surrounding the cabin and give away its position to the bikers
who might be still tracking Jack Flynn.
Instead, he decided on sloppy joes. As Flynn dozed off, he went into the cabin, tugging Ellie
with him. He opened a can of hamburger meat and heated it in a Dutch oven on a burner of the
former gas range that during the first month at the cabin, he’d converted to propane. Then, he
supervised Ellie as she poured a measure of barbecue sauce and a half-cup of water over the
meat, and per his recipe, sprinkled on a mixture of salt, pepper, a pinch of smoked paprika and a
dash of onion powder. As he’d taught her, Ellie stirred it around as it came to a boil. After
turning it down to a simmer, she turned and smiled at him.
“I cook,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, smiling back. “You cook.”

Two hours later, Flynn was licking his fingers. He looked at Ellie as she took the paper plate
from him, smiled and said, “You made this, Ellie? It’s delicious.”
She smiled shyly and bowed.
“Thank the man, Ellie,” Strock said as Ellie handed him the plate.
Ellie turned to Flynn, smiling again, and said, “You… are… welcome, sir.”
“Jack,” he told her. “Call me Jack.”
She bobbed her head, looking shy again, and said, “Jack.”
Strock took Flynn’s paper plate, and his and Ellie’s, and tossed them in a pit in a small
clearing behind the cabin where they had regular campfires. Not tonight, of course, not with the
prison bikers possibly about. He left Ellie on the porch and went into the cabin, returning
moments later with a couple more ibuprofens.
“You have nothing stronger?” Flynn asked as he took them from Strock.
“No, sorry,” Strock replied. “When we first got down here, I didn’t think of loading up on
medicines, like codeine or antibiotics. Then, in late January, Ellie came down with an awful cold,
so I took a trip to the hospital in Olean and found it pretty much looted of all meds. And that
went for all the other pharmacies in the area. So, all I have are these over-the-counter
ibuprofens.”
“Slave gangs,” Flynn commented.
“What?”
“From the Mount,” Flynn explained, “we noticed pockets of survivors—people who hadn’t
lost their minds—had joined up and formed into small groups—tribes, I guess. At first, they
started rescuing mindless zombies. Although doing so initially may have been well-intended,
once it was apparent that there wasn’t anyone going to come rescue them, they started treating
the rescued zombies like slaves. They were put to work for them. And we started calling the
groups who treated zombies like that, slave gangs.
“To make matters worse, after a few months,” Flynn went on, “some of these slave gangs
joined together into small armies that go about imposing their will on, well, anyone who gets in
their way. We found that not only have they enslaved zombies, but non-zombies as well.
They’ve become like the old Indian tribes, the Comanches and Apaches and the like, from the
old West, a new breed of hunter-gatherers, resorting to the most primitive and cruel methods of
survival.
“Patrols were sent out from the Mount to try and convince these tribes to come back with
them to the Mount. You know, to re-join civilization. Some of them listened, but some didn’t and
fought our patrols. Sometimes, the resistance was pretty fierce. We lost some good men trying to
bring them in, and eventually, we stopped trying.”
“I haven’t run into anything like that down here in these parts,” Strock said. “No slave gangs.
Just, as I said, evidence of survivors in Olean, who must have taken the meds.”
With a shrug, Flynn suggested, “I think they stay mostly near big cities and the suburbs
around them, where there are plenty of stores and houses they can loot, and hospitals and
pharmacies to raid for drugs, a new kind of currency in this brave new world we live in. Some, if
not most, drifted south as winter arrived.”
With that said, Flynn popped the two ibuprofen pills Strock had given him into his mouth and
washed them down with what was left in his glass of water.
Strock said, “Hey, let’s get you inside. Any time now, the mosquitos will be biting.”
 Nine
Ellie

After Strock pulled Flynn up and out of the recliner, Flynn leaned on him as they hopped
across the porch. “Ellie, open the door,” Strock called out as he and Flynn approached it. Wide-
eyed, she scrambled to her feet, went over and pulled open the screen door. She watched as
Flynn and Strock turned sideways, trying to move as one, and entered the cabin.
After bounding through the main room, with Ellie directly behind them, they negotiated the
narrow hallway that led to the small “guest” bedroom. Upon entering it, Strock then hopped with
Flynn over to a mattress on the floor and slowly lowered him onto it, careful not to have him
land on his splintered left leg. Strock went across the hall, retrieved a blanket out of a small
closet and returned with it to the bedroom. As he covered Flynn, he said, “Gets kinda chilly up in
these hills at night, even in summer.” Then, he stepped back and added, “Tomorrow, I’ll help
you shower, wash up.”
As Strock started to leave, Flynn called out, “Hey, Frank. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Strock said as he put his arm over Ellie’s shoulder, and directed her out of
the room.

After gently closing the door, he looked at Ellie in the cramped hallway and whispered,
“Guess you like our new friend, eh, Ellie?” She nodded and turned away with a sheepish look.
Strock took her hand and led her into their bedroom.
After closing the door, he put his arms around her shoulders and brought her close. He sniffed
into her long, auburn hair. It had gone straggly again as he hadn’t cut it in some weeks. Also, he
hadn’t colored it with the box of Clairol that gave it red tints and a waxy sheen. He was trying to
teach her how to color her hair herself and apply lotions to keep her skin soft and moist like she
used to do before the Plague. But unless he prodded her, she acted like a teenage tomboy and let
herself go.
She gave no resistance as he held her for a time, but she didn’t seem to reciprocate either.
Finally, he let out an exasperated sigh and crooned, “Baby, baby, where did our love go?’ He
smiled as she gave him a befuddled look. “It’s an old song, Ellie, the Supremes. They used to be
one of your favorites. From the sixties. Best music ever. Remember?” She gave him a vacant
look, and Strock turned her around to face their bed. “Sex fun, now, okay?” he said and smiled as
he nudged her toward the bed.
“Oh…kay.”
“I’m gonna shower,” he said. “Get under the covers.”
Ten minutes later, Strock came out of the bathroom naked and clambered under the covers
next to Ellie and snuggled close to her. “What’s going on in that mind, Ellie?” he whispered into
her hair. He rubbed his leg against her thigh and felt himself stiffening. “Do you even care about
screwing?
“Screwing,” she repeated and giggled.
Strock had waited a month or so after Ellie had gone blank to try and teach her about sex.
Before the Mind Plague, their lovemaking had been satisfying enough even after four years of
marriage. But teaching her how they’d made love back then was not an easy task, and Strock
soon became frustrated as Ellie couldn’t grasp what he wanted her to do. She was like a child in
that respect, with her eager eyes and pouty lips and he felt at times perverse as he prodded her to
do all the things that had come so naturally in their lovemaking before the Plague. Kissing her
and rubbing her body had the instinctive effect of turning her on, of getting her juices flowing.
But now she remained passive and let him pleasure her without knowing how to reciprocate.
After a few days, the idea of showing her porn videos as a teaching tool occurred to him. He
found an adult shop with bars on the windows along a narrow road off the main highway in,
appropriately enough, the Town of Bliss, a little burg about a twenty-minute drive from the cabin
and brought back a bagful of porno DVDs. As they played on the TV on a dresser in their
bedroom, Strock tried explaining what the thrusting and licking and moaning and grunting was
about while Ellie sat there squinting and frowning and giggling to herself and sometimes
laughing out loud. After a while, she seemed to grasp what he was trying to show her, what sex
was all about, and it even seemed she liked doing it, liked pleasuring him, or at least, enjoyed the
biological pleasure that having sex gave her.
From the first, Strock had used condoms during their lovemaking sessions. Getting Ellie
pregnant was the last thing he needed, with civilization having crashed down around them.
Before the Plague struck, toward the end of their third year of marriage, he and Ellie had decided
it was time to get her pregnant. Neither of them wanted to wait much longer. They were in their
early thirties, and his career was settled and secure so that she could raise the child without
having to go back to work for a time.
But after several months of trying, Ellie hadn’t gotten pregnant, and they had started worrying
that there was something medically wrong with either her or him or both of them. They were just
about to have a full battery of fertility tests when the Plague struck. Looking back at it now,
Strock was grateful that Ellie hadn’t gotten pregnant in the months before the Plague. He
couldn’t imagine trying to bring a child back from turning blank and then raising him or her now,
in the time after the end of the world.
Ellie didn’t resist that evening as Strock started kissing, grinding against her, and massaging
her body. Like the other times, as she had learned, she kissed him back and seemed to enjoy the
passage of his hands along her slender frame and his gentle nipping and licking at her neck and
ears. She laid back and closed her eyes and started moaning softly as his hand moved down
along her smooth stomach. She knew what to do by now and reached down to his crotch. Like
always, after some minutes of foreplay, he plucked a condom from inside the drawer of the night
table next to the bed. He slid it on, and after another few minutes of more kissing and rubbing
each other, he mounted her.
It was over quickly. At some point during one of his thrusts, Strock thought he heard Ellie
whisper the name, “Jack.”
 Ten
Breakfast

Strock woke up around seven-thirty the next morning. The sun had come up more than an
hour ago and was already above the treetops surrounding the cabin. The day promised to be hot
and sticky with the temperature climbing into the mid-to-upper eighties.
Strock let Ellie sleep. Most mornings, she didn’t get out of bed until nearly nine. After starting
a pot of coffee, he went to check on Flynn. He was awake, sitting up on the mattress in the guest
bedroom with his back against the wall and his broken leg stretched out. As Strock entered the
room, Flynn smiled and said, “Coffee smells great. They didn’t serve coffee in the prison.”
“How’s the leg?” Strock asked.
“Throbs a bit. But I slept. You did a great job. Thanks again.”
Strock helped him out of bed and hopped him out onto the porch where Flynn carefully slid
out of Strock’s arms onto the recliner. Though sun-drenched now, the porch received full shade
by late morning, so it never got unbearably hot out there.
“I’ll fix us some breakfast,” Strock said.
Breakfast was strictly survivalist. A week or so after arriving at the cabin, Strock had taken a
half-hour drive west into Olean and found some hunting and camping stores and loaded up the
Land Rover with gear, guns, and supplies. In addition to cases of instant breakfast and powders
in metal and plastic cans for lunch and dinner and snacks, that could be activated with warm or
cold water providing all the nourishment one might need to survive for a long time outside the
grid, he’d amassed a decent arsenal of guns, including a couple of shotguns and .22 caliber rifles
and five pistols with enough ammo to fight a small war.
Strock had not been a gun enthusiast before the Plague. After his hunting days at the cabin
were over once he went away to college, he never wanted a shotgun, or a gun of any kind for that
matter. It wasn’t that he was an anti-gun person. Owning a gun was simply something he could
do without. There seemed no need for it in his world of suits, court appearances, motion papers
and the nice, safe upscale neighborhood where he and Ellie had lived. To compensate for his lack
of enthusiasm and experience with guns, he’d spent numerous hours since the Plague out in the
woods around the cabin shooting. In that time, he’d become better but by no means an expert
shot.
That morning, Strock took a can of whole egg powder from a cabinet. He scooped several
spoonsful into a bowl and poured boiling water over it, then mixed the contents and put it into a
pan. After three minutes, he had a flat pancake of scrambled eggs without much texture, but tasty
enough with a dash of salt. He found a couple paper plates and two forks and brought them out to
Flynn.
Once Flynn dug into the eggs, his eyes flashed with surprise, and he smiled. “Hey, this ain’t
all that bad.”
“Tastes better than it looks,” Strock agreed as he shoveled a forkful into his mouth.
“Supposed to be good for you, too. Would like to have some toast with them, but the bread in the
stores and houses went bad months ago. That’s something else I’ll have to learn—baking bread.”
After swallowing down the eggs with black coffee, Strock collected the plates and cups and
forks and tossed them into a can in the kitchen for burning on a campfire some subsequent
evening, once the prison bikers looking for Flynn gave up the search. Strock then went and woke
up Ellie and fixed her a quick batch of eggs. After she had finished them, he told her to wash the
pan and that he was going into Salamanca for some “stuff.” It had been a couple weeks since his
last trip, and they were running low on bottled water and powders of food and juices, and they
definitely needed toilet paper. He’d also gather a couple toothbrushes for Flynn and some
clothes, and whatever else he could find that he thought they could use. What he couldn’t find in
the supermarkets in town, he’d take from the houses where the dead were still decomposing.
Ellie nodded shyly at the small kitchen table in the corner of the main room as he assured her,
“I should be back by lunch. You entertain our guest, alright?” She looked out toward the porch
and nodded, and Strock thought he detected a slight smile form on her lips as if nothing else
could please her more.
He collected a rifle and the Glock G29 from the closet in their bedroom. He’d practiced with
the Glock several times and found it to be the best shot. Strock walked out to the porch with Ellie
following after him and told Flynn he was heading out for provisions.
Flynn asked, “Can you leave me a weapon? Just in case.” When Strock frowned, Flynn added,
“You have to let me protect myself—and her. They’re after me. And if they find me, I’m dead.
And so is she.”
Strock nodded. He went back into the cabin and returned with another loaded Glock G29.
“Here,” he said as he handed it to Flynn. “This work?”
Flynn nodded and looked up at Strock and said, “Yeah. It’ll work.”
“Like I said,” Strock added, “I’ll be gone only two, three hours. Should be back in time for
lunch, leftover sloppy joes.”
“Can you show me where you’re going?” Flynn asked and let out a short laugh. “Where the
hell we are, for that matter.”
“Sure, I can show you,” Strock said. “Be right back.”
He walked off the porch and went around the back of the cabin to a clearing where the Land
Rover and Chevy Silverado with a red snowplow blade were parked. He’d pilfered the Silverado
from some nameless, dead mechanic’s greasy service garage in the center of the nearby town of
Carrollton shortly after arriving at the cabin. The previous winter had been relatively mild for
these parts west of Lake Erie and the usual blasts of lake effect snows, some years reaching over
two hundred inches, had never come. Thus, he’d had to plow the driveway only a half-a-dozen
times.
After opening the passenger door of the Land Rover, he reached inside and clicked the glove
compartment door open and withdrew a folded map of the western portion of New York State
that he’d taken months ago from a gas station convenience store. He dug for a pen in the open
compartment and returned to the porch with the map and pen. After sitting on the lawn chair next
to the recliner, he unfolded the map across Flynn’s lap.
“Here’s us,” Strock said as he drew a tiny, crude house at the point along Route 417 where he
believed the gentle curl directly below the cabin was located where Flynn’s Harley had gone off
the road.
“Where I’m going is here,” Strock continued. “Salamanca.” He drew a blue line on the map
along Route 417 into the town. “So that’s it, where you are, and where I’m going.”
“Just be sure to avoid my biker pals along the way,” Flynn said.
“That’s the plan,” said Strock. Then, he was striding off the cabin to the Land Rover.
 Eleven
Salamanca

After placing the map he’d shown Flynn back in the glove compartment, he started the Land
Rover and drove down the bumpy driveway down to Route 417. After slashing through the
overgrown brush hiding the entrance, he turned left.
Twenty minutes later, he was pulling into Salamanca, a small, fairly typical farm-belt
community wholly within the borders of the Seneca Indian Nation’s Allegheny Reservation
along the shores of the Allegheny River just off Interstate 86. Some years ago, after the Governor
had approved a deal permitting the Senecas to open a casino in the city, the Senecas had built a
tall, blue-glass casino and adjoining resort hotel that didn’t quite fit the surrounding topography
of old farmhouses and barns and clapboard stores along Main Street. But the Indians and locals
didn’t care about how the casino might have marred the historic landscape of the city. Instead,
they appreciated the influx of millions of dollars from the gamblers who came down from
Buffalo or up from Erie, Pennsylvania, and as far east as Pittsburgh, Johnstown, and all the large
and small burgs in between. Busloads of mostly senior citizens were transported every day to the
casino to spend their meager savings.
During a trip to Salamanca for provisions one gloomy afternoon three months after the Plague
struck, Strock had strolled through the cavernous casino and marveled at the many dead and
rotting elderly gamblers who’d fallen between slot machines, roulette and blackjack tables, on
carpets that still smelled of smoke from the tax-free cigarettes the Senecas had produced on their
reservation. What surprised him most was that so many old people had risen before dawn to
place their bets.

After stopping by the Salamanca Lumber Company and taking a couple two-by-fours from
the lumber yard for Flynn’s new leg splints, Strock was back in the Land Rover driving a few
blocks south toward Sander’s Parkview Supermarket. There was a Sav-a-Lot nearby that had
served as another source of food, drink, and a variety of other supplies. After grabbing a few
more cartons of toilet paper, boxes of matches, batteries, cans of tuna fish, black olives, beans
and vegetables and jars of pickles, and depositing them in the rear compartment of the Land
Rover, Strock was on the road for the trip back to the cabin.
Strock estimated that he’d have another five or six visits before cleaning out the two
supermarkets before he needed to start invading houses. He could also search for supermarkets
farther west, in Jamestown along the eastern side of Chautauqua Lake, or head east to the several
supermarkets and department stores, and even a mall, in Olean. Eventually, he might even have
to trek down Interstate 90 to Erie, or north to Buffalo. There still seemed an endless supply of
houses and stores to raid to ensure his and Ellie’s survival for years to come without resorting to
living off the land, provided he could avoid the slave gangs Flynn had mentioned,
After loading up the Land Rover with food and supplies from Sander’s, Strock stopped at a
gas station and filled ten five-gallon cans. He then visited a nearby hardware store and collected
some packages of batteries and anything else he could grab that he thought might be useful. A
few minutes before Noon, he decided that he’d collected sufficient food and supplies and that it
was time to head back to the cabin. Like all his other trips, he’d not run into another living
human being, and, as usual, the quiet of the stores and streets unnerved him.
Strock decided to take Interstate 86 rather than Route 417 back to the cabin. He’d noticed in
recent weeks that some back roads were becoming overgrown with vegetation spreading out
from the encroaching woods. Without state and county highway crews to cut down the grass and
brush along the shoulders, or to fill and repair the cracks on the roads, Strock envisioned a time
when some, if not most, of these roads, and even the major highways and interstates, would
become impassable.
To get to the entrance for eastbound Interstate 86, Strock took Main Street to Parkway Drive,
a section of US Route 219 that, a quarter mile or so after crossing a bridge over the Allegheny
River, had been widened into a four-lane highway to accommodate the additional Casino traffic
entering the separate westbound and eastbound entrance and exit ramps of the interstate. The
eastbound entrance ramp was about two-tenths of a mile past the westbound one, and as Strock
slowed to make the right turn onto it, he first heard, then saw, six motorcycles coming directly at
him from around the bend. After a sharp turn onto the entrance ramp, he accelerated, hoping that
he hadn’t been seen.
But Strock soon realized that he had been seen. As he merged onto the interstate, he heard the
flurry of motorcycles turning left onto the entrance ramp to the interstate, chasing after him.
 Twelve
The Chase

Strock gunned the Land Rover to eighty…ninety…one-hundred, but when he looked up, he
saw that the wedge of motorcycles was gaining on him. With his mile-long lead quickly
dwindling, he made a snap decision to pull off along the shoulder of the interstate near a thicket
of trees and brush and make a run for it. Seconds after he’d slid to a stop, exited and started
running with the Glock in his hand, the bikers had pulled in behind the Land Rover.
After scampering into the woods, Strock ran for about two minutes, avoiding branches as best
he could and careful not to step in a hole or over a branch or tree root that might break an ankle,
before stopping and hiding behind a tree. He caught his breath and peeked out back toward the
interstate. He didn’t see or hear a thing. The bikers apparently had not chased after him. But
having not heard the roar of motorcycles either told him that they were likely still by the side of
the highway.
Strock decided to sneak back there and see what they were up to. Quietly backtracking, he
finally got close enough to hear voices. He stopped behind a thick Maple tree at the edge of the
woods, mere yards from the interstate. Peeking out, he saw the bikers milling about the Land
Rover with their bikes parked a few feet behind it. The driver’s side window of the Land Rover
had been smashed, but they had been unable to get it started and no longer seemed interested in
doing so. There’d be no point. If they wanted a Land Rover, they could find a dealership, locate
the keys, and take one, or several for that matter.
What concerned Strock was that one of the bikers at the rear of the Land Rover was holding
the map he’d apparently retrieved from the glove compartment—the one Strock had drawn the
crude stick-house marking the location of the cabin. He suspected the biker scrutinizing the map
was none other than Osama Omar, the leader of the biker pack. After staring at the map for a
time, the biker smiled. He tapped at the map and appeared to trace the line Strock had drawn
from the cabin to Salamanca. The swarthy, bearded Islamist’s smile widened as he folded the
map and stuffed it down the inside of his gray prison-issue jumpsuit.
Strock suddenly worried that Omar had somehow connected the dots—figured out that the
crudely drawn miniature house on the map had something to do with Flynn. It was, after all, near
the exact spot where they’d suddenly lost trace of him, even the roar of his Harley, right along
that shallow bend along old State Route 417. Even if he hadn’t made that connection, it looked to
have roused his curiosity sufficiently enough to determine what might be up at the crude little
house drawn on the map. In either event, the map would take him straight to Flynn and Ellie.
Strock weighed using the Glock to shoot Omar and the others. But there seemed too many of
them, and from his position, he didn’t have a clear shot. Plus, if he shot and missed, or didn’t
plug them all, he’d be a sitting duck.
Omar turned to the bikers standing beside him with vacant expressions and shouted something
in Arabic. After the bikers hesitated, Omar started pushing them to their parked Harleys while
continuing to bark orders at them.
Upon mounting his bike, Omar took out his pistol and proceeded to shoot into the Land
Rover’s tires. Within seconds, the Land Rover had four flats. After that, he raised the pistol and
waved it like some cavalry prince commanding his biker troops to get moving. The motorcycles
roared to life and took off, accelerating east along Interstate 86.
In the pit of Strock’s stomach grew a fear that Osama Omar and his biker gang were cruising
straight for the cabin.
 Thirteen
Gone

As Strock started jogging along the interstate back to Salamanca, he guessed it would take
him at least an hour to return to the cabin—half an hour traversing the roughly four miles back to
Salamanca, another ten minutes to find and start a car, and then another twenty to drive full-
speed to the cabin. More likely, he was looking at an hour-and-a-half.
Strock also wondered whether he’d seen too much into Osama Omar’s scrutiny of the map.
Even if he hadn’t, and Omar did indeed lead his biker gang to the cabin, Flynn had the Glock and
held the element of surprise. He might be able to pick off Omar and his biker crew one-by-one
before they realized what hit them. But the dread of another possible outcome haunted him—
Omar and his crew racing up the driveway and overrunning Flynn and then killing him and after
that, raping and killing poor Ellie.
Five minutes into his jog back to Salamanca, Strock had to stop. He leaned forward with his
hands on his thighs and gulped air. He’d never been a runner and hadn’t worked out in years.
Thus, running four miles non-stop in the late morning heat in mid-July just wasn’t happening.
After a couple minutes, he felt better, so he straightened and started a brisk walk. When he
arrived at the exchange ramp for Parkway Drive, the sun was high up in the hazy sky, baking the
asphalt streets. Strock was thirsty and hungry, and his legs ached. By now, Omar and his crew
may have already found the cabin and captured and killed Flynn and Ellie, or been killed trying,
or had found nothing. That was long beyond Strock’s control.
Strock hurried around the curved ramp and spotted, tucked up on a patch of land to the
immediate right of it, a small cape cod house with a narrow, gravel driveway. Parked on the
driveway was a black Jeep Cherokee that still looked in decent shape. After coming around to
the end of the exit ramp, he trotted up the driveway.
Finding the Jeep locked, Strock climbed onto the front porch and found the front door of the
house locked as well. There was a rocking chair in the corner of the porch, and he used it to
smash in the living room window. He gingerly climbed over the frame into the house, and after
having to step over the almost fully decomposed corpse of an older woman sprawled out on the
living room carpet, he strode forward under an archway into the kitchen. Spotting a key rack near
a back door, Strock went over and snatched two sets of keys dangling from one of the hooks. He
bolted back into the living room, opened the front door without even glancing at the corpse, and
trotted down the porch steps to the Jeep.
The second set of keys opened the driver’s side door, and Strock jumped into the Jeep. Not
unexpectantly, after nine months of non-use, the engine wouldn’t turn over. The battery was
dead. After cursing a moment, Strock hopped out of the Jeep, trotted down the driveway and
turned left onto Parkway Drive. He remembered that there was an auto parts store a mile or so up
Broad Street. He had to smash the front window of the store to break inside, and after climbing
in, soon found what he was looking for—a gas powered battery charger like a couple he had at
the cabin. Strock found a siphoning hose in the store and with it, lugged the twenty-five-pound
charger across the street to a gas station. After siphoning enough gas from the tank to fill the
charger’s tank, he carried it back to the house near the exit ramp and quickly charged the Jeep’s
battery.
A minute later, Strock sighed with relief as the Jeep’s engine finally gurgled to a start.
Glancing at the fuel dial, he noticed that there was a half tank of gas, certainly more than enough
to get him back to the cabin.
Checking his watch, he saw that more than an hour and a half had lapsed since the bikers had
taken off down Interstate 86 in the direction of the cabin. Putting the Jeep into reverse, he
gunned it down the driveway, spewing pieces of gravel every which way. Seconds later, he was
turning left onto the eastbound entrance ramp to Interstate 86, fearing that he was far too late to
help Flynn and Ellie.
He sped up to ninety, went past where the hapless Land Rover now rested—a shot-up heap
along the shoulder—then slowed a bit to negotiate a curve before the Interstate became a straight
stretch astride the meandering Allegheny River to his left and thick woods to his right that
extended all the way into Allegheny State Park. It took Strock another few minutes to reach the
exit to Route 417. He turned left onto it and while speeding through the Town of Carrollton,
spotted a plume of black and gray-white smoke billowing up into the hazy sky above the trees
where he thought the cabin might be.
Strock gunned the Jeep and didn’t slow down until he reached the entrance to the cabin’s
gravel driveway where he pulled along the shoulder of Route 417 and parked the Jeep. He got
out of the Jeep and cautiously snuck up to the cabin behind the cover of trees and brush along the
side of the driveway.
When Strock peeked out from the brush at the top of it, he saw that the cabin was a
smoldering wreck. The side and back walls were blackened and had partially caved in, and a
portion of the roof toward the front of the cabin had collapsed as well. A small blaze raged from
somewhere in the back that used to be his and Ellie’s bedroom. The haze hugging the ground
made it difficult to see and breathe. The air was permeated with the sickly-sweet smell of charred
wood and melted plastic.
Watching the sad sight of the burnt-out cabin, his home for the past nine months, with dark,
grimy smoke rising above the trees toward the hazy sky, Strock dreaded stepping out into the
clearing to more closely inspect the damage. He didn’t fear the bikers. They were gone. What he
feared was finding Ellie’s battered and burnt corpse somewhere among the ruins of the cabin or
in the surrounding woods. Holding back a moment, he cursed himself for going down to the road
yesterday afternoon and helping Flynn.
After a sigh, Strock edged out from his hiding place and crept toward the smoldering cabin.
The area around the cabin was still hot. A search of the burnt interior would have to wait awhile.
The only sounds were embers cracking, insects buzzing and birds cawing.
Walking around the perimeter of the cabin several times, he kept called out for Ellie, and her
name echoed off the canopy of the dense forest around him. She didn’t answer. During his first
circle of the cabin, he noticed that the Silverado was gone, and a hope stirred within him that
Osama Omar and his men had commandeered it to transport Ellie and Flynn back to the prison.
After his fifth circle around the cabin, calling out for Ellie every now and then, Strock
stopped. There were no bodies outside the cabin or in the woods, and there appeared to be none
inside. Ellie might still be alive. Flynn, too. Taken by Osama Omar and his biker crew back to
the Supermax.
 Part Two
The Monastery
 Fourteen
Ghosts

For the next fifteen minutes that windless afternoon Strock stood in the clearing watching a
thin column of gray-white smoke waft straight up into the clear blue sky, trying to figure out his
next move. He had lost everything: his home, his possessions, and even the recliner on the porch.
Worst of all, he’d lost Ellie, though at least the possibility existed that she was still alive.
At last, he decided that he must go after her, and Jack Flynn as well, and rescue them from the
prison—the Supermax, as Flynn had called it—in Cumberland, Maryland, only a two-hour drive
straight down through Pennsylvania from where he stood. Flynn had already given him an idea
how he might get inside. He’d somehow have to find and overpower—that is, kill—a blank
inmate and then impersonate him. Once inside, he’d have to find Ellie and Flynn, and after
finding them, escaping with them from the prison and then getting to Mount Weather.
All that seemed a nearly impossible task. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t simply
strike out on his own and forget about Ellie. Mulling things over, Strock tried not to think about
what the leader of the prison, Sheik Abu al-Shahab, and his disciples like Osama Omar, might do
to Ellie, an infidel woman. There was no telling what degradations she’d have to endure until his
dramatic, hoped-for rescue.
After a time, he shook himself and drew a breath. He gave the burnt-out cabin one long last
look, then strode down the driveway to the Jeep Cherokee. He made a U-turn along Route 417
and drove back to Salamanca for food and other provisions, including some new clothes, and to
find guns he’d need for the journey to Cumberland, Maryland. He decided against taking a newer
SUV from one of the dealerships in town, or another vehicle sitting in the driveway. The Jeep
seemed dependable enough and had plenty of storage room. Finally, he resolved to spend some
time at the Salamanca Public Library and see what he could find out about the Supermax.
It was nearly dark by the time Strock had loaded up the Jeep with food and provisions,
including cans and dry cereal and powdered eggs, water bottles and other drinks, several guns—a
couple of AK-47s and three Beretta 92s—and several boxes of ammo. He also grabbed a
toothbrush, toothpaste, rolls of toilet paper, a new wardrobe, including underwear, sneakers,
boots, and anything else he could think of. Whatever he’d forgotten, he could find in a town
along the way.
From the Salamanca library, he removed a thick tome on federal prisons that included, to his
delight, the Supermax or more properly, ADX Cumberland. He’d spend some time reading it
before he turned in for the night.
From there, he drove around Salamanca and found a large enough Colonial on a nice tree-
lined street not far from the center of town into which he could break in and get a good night’s
sleep. Bright and early the following morning, he’d start out on his rescue mission.
After smashing in the front bay window and climbing into the house, Strock headed upstairs
and in the master-bedroom found the skeletal remains of a middle-aged man and woman in the
king-sized bed. The woman lay on her side while her husband had stayed on his back. For a time
after the Mind Plague struck, their eyes in their presently empty, blackened sockets had looked
out—the woman at the side wall, and the man at the ceiling—without a thought or a care in the
world. Strock wondered what it had felt like. Bliss? Oblivion? As the hours and days passed by,
they continued laying there, one staring sideways, the other gazing up at the ceiling until they
shat and pissed the bed and their bodies ate themselves to death without either of them knowing
or caring that they were starving to death.
There were two guest bedrooms in the hallway down from the master bedroom. One had been
turned into an office with a desk and bookcase while the other was furnished with a regular-sized
bed. After eating some cold canned beef and Saltine crackers, Strock sat on the bed in the
guestroom upstairs and flipped open the tome on federal prisons on his lap. He used a flashlight
to read what he could until his eyes felt heavy and he dozed off.
He woke with a start about an hour later. After tossing the book to the floor, he took off his
shorts and shirt in the muggy night and stretched out. But he had trouble falling asleep. The
house was dark and beset by strange sounds—boards creaking, the gurgling of pipes, the house
settling or something. He couldn’t help but think that the ghosts of the couple were strolling
about upstairs, wondering about the stranger sleeping in their guestroom. Adding to the eeriness
of the night was the utter lack of sound outside. No cars, no planes, no police or ambulance
sirens, no barking dogs, no loud television sets, no voices. He laid there staring up at the ceiling
contemplating for the first time in all the months since the Mind Plague struck the enormity of
what had happened. Billions of human beings had died. Billions! And without Ellie to hold, he
couldn’t chase that horrible idea from his mind. The night became intolerably lonely,
suffocating.
After tossing and turning for an hour, Strock pushed himself out of bed and went downstairs.
He stretched out on a couch in the living room and clutched himself, still hounded by his
complete and utter solitude. Staring out in the silent darkness, his thoughts turned to his parents.
When the Mind Plague had struck, they were at their three-bedroom condo in Scottsdale,
Arizona where they’d moved years earlier. In the hours following the Plague, he’d thought of
driving the thirty hours down there hoping to find them still alert and alive. But as the enormity
of the disaster sunk in, Strock sadly gave up the idea. There was no way he could chance a trip of
that distance with the world having crashed down around him and trying to take care of himself
and the mind-blank Ellie. The same went for his sister, Sarah, and Jed, his brother-in-law, and
their two young daughters, Margie and Dawn, who’d moved to San Diego the preceding year.
He sighed, thinking of them, and Ellie’s parents as well, down in Florida, having probably,
like most everyone else, awakened and died in their beds unable to remember how to get up. And
again, he told himself, there was nothing he could have done to save them, to save any of the
millions upon millions who’d died like that. It was a dim hope that one or more of them had not
been affected by the disease or whatever had caused the blankness of minds and were surviving
in what was left of the world after the Plague.
Finally, he managed to fall asleep. He dreamt about Ellie being chased in the woods by a
towering, growling grizzly bear. When he went into the dark woods to save her, he came upon
Flynn who nodded, grinned back at him and said, “I’ll take care of her now.”
Strock awoke from some other dream that was quickly forgotten as soon as the morning sun
invaded the house. It was nearly seven, and he needed to be on his way. The quest to rescue Ellie
and Flynn was all he had left. He quickly packed and left the house glad to escape its ghosts.
 Fifteen
On the Road

The first thing Strock did after starting out that morning was to stop at a Sunoco station and
use a hose he’d taken from the house he’d stayed at the night before to siphon gas out of one of
the pumps into the Jeep’s sixteen-gallon tank. He then filled four five-gallon plastic gas cans to
take along for the ride. With that done, he drove to the Parkway Drive entrance ramp to the
eastbound Interstate 86.
Deciding to stay off any of the interstate highways that led down to Maryland to avoid slave
gangs likely to use them, he exited onto US Route 219 and instead took the older back roads.
Within fifteen minutes, he’d crossed into Pennsylvania, though borders didn’t matter anymore.
Forty-five minutes later, needing to relieve himself, he stopped along the shoulder just past the
small town of Burning Well, Pennsylvania. It was a pleasantly cool morning in late July in the
low Alleghany hills.
During the drive, a variety of thoughts about Ellie had been swirling around Strock’s brain,
and he was still considering them as he peed out in the open a few feet from the Jeep. Afterward,
he continued these ruminations as he sat with the door open on the driver’s side, listening to the
wind rustle the leaves of the trees and brush and grass that were encroaching upon the shoulder
of the highway. He missed Ellie’s company, even though she was a shell of the woman she’d
been before the Plague. Worry nagged at him as well about how miserably she was likely being
treated at the Supermax, and how frightened and confused this childlike version of the old Ellie
must be.
He took his worn wallet out of the back pocket of his shorts and started sifting through it.
Carrying a wallet was no longer necessary, of course. The credit and debit cards, his driver’s
license, health insurance card, and a still-crisp twenty-dollar bill meant nothing now. Though
useless, old habits were hard to break, and Strock knew he’d feel like he was missing something
if he didn’t carry his wallet around with him.
He plucked out the small photograph of Ellie he’d placed among some business cards in the
billfold a couple years back and gazed at her smiling out at him. She’d flashed that smile as he
had snapped the picture using a digital camera she’d given him on his birthday. That time now
seemed impossibly distant, a figment of a dream. The Ellie he’d cared for at the cabin in the nine
months since the Plague struck was a completely different person and he’d certainly not been
able to reignite the tender look in Ellie’s eyes for him like the one depicted in the photograph.
Still, even now, Strock clung to the hope that despite whatever had caused Ellie’s mind to go
blank, and that had so apparently obliterated her love for him—whether some disease, other
natural or manmade phenomenon—deep down, she was still essentially Ellie. That somewhere in
the depths of her damaged brain the electricity sparked by its synapses representing her love for
him, and determining who she was, could be re-ignited.
After sliding Ellie’s photograph back into his wallet and returning it to the rear pocket of his
shorts, Strock leaned back and closed his eyes. He suddenly felt heavy with exhaustion after a
bad night’s sleep and all that had happened over the last couple of days. Losing everything and
dedicating himself to what now seemed like a hopeless cause—a suicidal rescue mission—had
suddenly drained him.
After a minute or so, he pulled himself back from the depths and sat forward. He needed to
get going. He could nap once he reached the outskirts of the prison, and after that, hopeless or
suicidal, he would put his plan into gear of somehow getting inside the prison, finding where
Ellie and Flynn were being held, and then escaping with them out and make their way to Mount
Weather.
Strock finally closed the door, started the Jeep and got going. But ten minutes later, just past
Sandy, Pennsylvania, his trip to ADX Cumberland came to an abrupt halt. A large tree had fallen
across both lanes of US 219 in a desolate, wooded area. He soon determined that there was no
way to lift the thick trunk off the road, or drive around it, as both shoulders featured soft, mucky
ground in which he feared the Jeep might become stuck. He could find some back-country roads
that would return him to US 219 and risk getting lost in the process; he could backtrack and find
a hardware store with a gas-powered chainsaw he could use to cut up the tree; or, he could chart
an entirely new route down to the Supermax.
After reviewing the map for several minutes, Strock decided on option number three. He re-
routed his journey to the prison through a couple back roads to Interstate 99, despite the prospect
of slave gangs or other undesirable survivors of the Plague using it. Half an hour later, he was
turning onto the entrance ramp to the interstate that the map told him would take him straight
through to Cumberland, Maryland.
 Sixteen
Brother Paul

After driving another half hour along I-99, Strock pulled over onto the gravel shoulder for
lunch. It was around Noon and already over eighty degrees with the sky a hazy gray. He strolled
to the back of the Jeep, and after opening the rear compartment, fished a can of tuna fish and
crackers out of one of the cardboard boxes. He found an opener and fork in another of the boxes
and as he was about to open the can, Strock noticed something glint along the horizon along the
southbound interstate. Squinting that way for a time, his heart skipped a beat with the fear that
the glint may be the sun’s reflection off the front windshield of a vehicle speeding his way.
“Damn,” he hissed.
He tossed down the tuna can and box of crackers, slammed down the rear door of the Jeep,
and hurried to the driver’s side. After jumping in and starting the Jeep, he glanced up into the
rearview mirror and saw four black Dodge Challengers racing side-by-side toward him. He
decided that it was already too late to outrun the speeding cars and making a run into the woods
didn’t seem a good option either as he’d first have to traverse a long field of grass to get there.
His only option seemed to reason with whomever was driving the Challengers and if that failed,
to try and shoot his way out.
Seconds later, with the Challengers having closed the gap to no more than tenth of a mile,
Strock reached over into the backseat and grabbed one of the loaded AK-47s, then exited the
Jeep. His heart was pounding now as he scrambled to the right front bumper just as the
Challengers had screeched to a ragged stop only a few yards from his position.
Crouching down behind the Jeep, Strock watched as eight occupants, two from each of the
Challengers, jumped out and stooped down behind their respective cars. A lanky fellow in his
mid-thirties, with long, wind-blown, sandy-blonde hair, and sharp, gaunt features, wearing
wrinkled green camouflage Army fatigues, popped his head up from behind one of the cars.
After clearing his throat, the man said, “Hey, dude?” When Strock didn’t answer, the man said,
“We saw you, man. You’re in front of the Jeep, right?”
Still, Strock didn’t answer. His heart was pounding, and he could barely think.
“You hear me, dude?”
After several seconds, Strock called, “Yeah, I hear you.”
“We were just wondering what you’s doing out here? Where you headed?”
“South. I’m, I’m heading south.”
“Where south?”
“Nowhere. Just south.”
“Man, that ain’t no answer,” the man sniggered. “You must be headed somewhere.”
Another man’s voice called out from behind one of the other parked Challengers, “Let’s just
take him, Jake. Send in the fucking grunts. It’s six to fucking one.”
The one named Jake said, “Now, there’s no call for talk like that, Cyrus. Let’s hear the man
out.”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Strock called. “I’m heading south. Getting to better
weather.”
 “Better weather?” Jake laughed. “It’s eighty-something degrees up here. You need it
warmer.”
“It’s none of your business where I’m headed,” Strock replied, trying to sound confident.
“Well, yes, it is my business,” Jake said. “See, we police these parts, all the way east from
Pittsburgh, and we don’t take kindly when someone trespasses through our property.”
“I’m not trespassing. Just driving through.”
“Why we arguing with this dude, Jake?” the one named Cyrus called. “Let’s just take him out
and get back to camp. I’m starving.”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Strock answered. “Just let me go. I’m armed.”
Seconds passed, and out in the road from behind the Challengers, Strock thought he heard
Jake and Cyrus having an animated discussion. After a minute or so, Jake shouted, “Look, you
got to three to come out from behind that Jeep, or we come get you, you hear me?” He seemed to
draw a breath, then started counting, “One…two.”
But he never got to three.

From somewhere on the interstate behind the parked Challengers, Strock heard the
approaching roar of what sounded like a heavy vehicle of some kind —a truck, perhaps—and
then, the sudden screeching of tires.
Jake shouted, “Shit, take cover!”
Strock heard the clattering of gunfire and bullets clanging off the cars, mixed with shouts and
curses. Jake’s gang was under attack.
As the gunfire continued, Strock peeked out from behind the front bumper of the Jeep and
saw that a large, black, souped-up pick-up truck with enormous tires had stopped about a
hundred feet behind the Challengers. Six or seven hooded figures in long brown cassocks were
standing in the bed of the truck firing AK-47s at Jake’s gang. Three or four more had exited the
cab, circled around and were also firing at them.
Strock heard some of the shots ping off the Jeep on the driver’s side, compelling him to
hunker down and hug himself to avoid being hit by a stray bullet.
Thankfully, the gun battle didn’t last long. When the firing stopped, Strock peeked out again
and saw three hooded figures warily approaching the Challengers to examine what was behind
the cars—the bodies, no doubt, of Jake and Cyrus, and the others with them sprawled out along
the southbound lane. One of the bodies was writhing and groaning on the hot asphalt surface of
the highway and Strock watched as one of the robed figures raised his rifle and shot a burst of
gunfire into the body until it became still.
A moment later, the same hooded figure turned to Strock and shouted, “You there, behind the
Jeep. You alright?”
Strock was too stunned by the turn of events to speak. He had come within minutes of being
captured by Jake’s gang. He wondered what he now faced.
“Look, my son, we won’t hurt you,” the robed figure said. “We are Christians. Come out.”
After a sigh, feeling too overmatched to resist any longer, Strock stood, and with his arms
over his head, slinked out from behind the Jeep. The robed man approached and stopped a few
feet from him. He lowered his hood revealing a compact, rugged-looking man in his early fifties
with a trimmed speckled beard, brown, kind eyes, and thick brown hair tinged with gray that fell
to his shoulders. He regarded Strock with a friendly expression.
Strock asked, “Who are you?”
The man smiled, and in a soft, kindly voice, replied, “I’m Brother Paul.”
 Seventeen
The Kingdom of God

Brother Paul took Strock by his right arm, then led him past the Jeep and across the
southbound lanes of the interstate toward the tall pick-up truck. The other robed figures had
gathered around them and headed that way as well. As they walked past the Jeep, Strock stopped
and glanced back at it. The driver side was shot up, plugged with multiple gunshots. The
windows were smashed out on that side, and both tires were flat.
“It’s totaled,” Strock commented sadly.
“Appears so,” agreed Brother Paul. He tugged at Strock’s arm to get him going again.
Strock looked at him and asked, “Where’re you taking me.”
“To St. Bartholomew’s,” Brother Paul replied. “St. Bart’s for short. Our monastery. It’s not
far from here, a fifteen-minute drive.” He nodded to the hooded figures who had followed along
with them. “We’re monks,” he said. “Brothers in Christ. But more of that later. I’ll explain
everything back at St. Bart’s, all you need to know. It’s dangerous standing out here in the road.”
He nodded over to the bodies sprawled across the southbound lane of the interstate by the
Challengers. “More of them might be lurking about.”
“More of who?”
“Them,” said Brother Paul. “A bad tribe. Sinners. We’re keeping them clear of St. Bart’s as
best we can. But as I said, I’ll more fully explain everything later, after we return to the
monastery. Okay?”
Strock nodded. He glanced up into the cab of the pick-up, a 2016 Ford F-150 SuperCrew.
After marveling at its oversized tires a moment, he wondered if he had gone from the proverbial
frying pan into the fire. Perhaps Brother Paul had been a monk in the age that had passed away.
But what you’d been or done in your former life didn’t mean a thing in this one. Life had become
entirely about surviving and gaining control. Like Sheik al-Shahab at the Supermax, imposing
your beliefs on both those who had lost their minds and those few who hadn’t was all that
mattered. It was like what he’d been doing for Ellie, trying to get her to be the old Ellie and most
of all trying to get her to love him again. These monks, led by this Brother Paul, could merely be
doing that—getting others to convert to their way of thinking to enhance the survival of the
monastery and further their way of life.
Brother Paul hopped up onto the ledge on the passenger side of the truck, reached up and
opened the door. Then, he jumped down, turned to Strock and said, “Please, my son, get in.” He
put his hand on Strock’s left shoulder. “As I said, it’s not safe out here.”
In that moment, Strock knew he didn’t have a choice. He was being taken to St. Bart’s
monastery whether he wanted to go or not. Strock stepped onto the ledge and lifted himself up
onto the passenger seat.
“But first, we need to clean this up,” Brother Paul added, nodding to the bullet-ridden Jeep,
the four black Dodge Challengers, and the bodies of the dead scattered across the southbound
lanes of the interstate.
Strock watched from the passenger seat of the pick-up as Brother Paul and the six monks with
him—apparently blanks by the way they wordlessly and methodically followed his directions—
went over and unloaded the provisions from the rear compartment and back seat of the Jeep, then
stuffed them into the trunks and back seats of the four Challengers. After that, they pushed the
hapless, destroyed Jeep off the shoulder of the interstate to a stand of trees, making it look as if it
had gone off the road like so many other cars and SUVs and trucks and semis had when their
operators went blank the morning of the Plague. Next, they dragged the bullet-riddled, bloodied
bodies of Jake and Cyrus and the others who’d been part of their gang across the long grass field
into the woods.
Upon returning to the southbound lane, Brother Paul picked out four monks to drive the
Challengers, while the other two went with him back to the pick-up. Carrying their AK-47s,
these two sat in the backseat of the cab while Brother Paul took the driver’s seat next to Strock.
Before leaving, he made the sign of the cross and said, “Dear Lord, transmit the souls of your
fallen children into your bosom and into righteous service to your Father, and forgive them their
sins. And forgive us our sins as well.”

After five minutes driving southbound on I-99, Brother Paul took the exit for US 22
eastbound with the four black Dodge Challengers in a row behind him. After rolling down the
main road through the deserted, quaint little town of Hollidaysburg a couple minutes later, the
caravan drove on for another couple minutes before turning right onto a narrow road named,
“Monastery Way” enveloped by a thick canopy of trees. After half a mile, they turned left onto a
gravel driveway and shortly after, they emerged from the shadows of the woods into a wide,
bright clearing revealing several red brick buildings and a gray barn across a field of grass with
several dairy cows grazing along it. Stretching out beyond the barn were rows and rows of tall
cornstalks and other vegetable fields that were being tended by robed monks.
Strock looked out at the monks milling about as the caravan drove up and parked in front of
the nearest building, hooded and wearing the same long brown cassocks. One of them, a squat,
impish figure, nodded and flashed a mischievous grin at Strock, or seemed to, then turned away.
Frowning, Strock scanned the other monks and noted that at the perimeter of the monastery
grounds, several of them carried AK-47s.
As Brother Paul shut off the pick-up, he turned to Strock and said, “Here we are, my son, St.
Bartholomew’s.” He grinned and added, “Our Kingdom of God.”
 Eighteen
Brothers Jacob and Anthony

“They’re all blanks,” Strock guessed, nodding to the monks outside the truck. Brother Paul
frowned, not getting Strock’s meaning at first. But then, he nodded and said, “Blanks, yes. Lost
souls—those who lost their capacity to think or remember.” He nodded again and smiled. “Yes, a
good word for them. Yes, each of them are blanks.”
“You saved them?”
Brother Paul thought for a moment, then replied, “Yes, I saved them. Fifty or so. Most of the
brothers living here, thirty, and I rescued twenty from Hollidaysburg. It’s taken time, saving
them, getting them to think again and to care for themselves. Still, they seem shells of who they
used to be. None of them can speak much, but they do obey my directions.
“There were so many others in Hollidaysburg and beyond I couldn’t save. I just couldn’t get
to them all. For a time, I tried burying them.” He swallowed and nodded to the barn past a grass
field about a hundred yards away and added, “Back there, behind the barn where the cows now
graze, the brothers I saved, and I dug graves. But after a while, we stopped digging. There were
too many of them, too many corpses littering the streets or who’d died in their beds.” He looked
at Strock. “I’m sure you saw that horror in your travels.”
Strock nodded. Yes, the horror—the countless fallen, bloated corpses, decomposing, rotting in
the streets or in their homes, their beds. And the silence. The haunting absence of human sound
anywhere.
“I thank the Lord Jesus for keeping me awake, alive with the Holy Spirit,” Brother Paul
continued. “If not for his grace, St. Bart’s would have perished. I only wish I could have saved
more of them. But there wasn’t time. There just wasn’t enough time.”
“You’ve found no others immune from the Plague?” Strock suddenly asked. “Like yourself?
Me?”
“No, no others,” Brother Paul said. “Except for those back there, leaders of the barbarian
tribes. But they fight first and ask questions later. So, no, I’ve found no others.” He smiled and
added, “Well, until you, today.”
“Come,” Brother Paul said with a nod, gesturing for Strock to exit the truck. He looked back
toward the two monks sitting behind him, alert but indecisive, waiting for orders. He said,
“Come,” and nodded for them to exit the vehicle as well and they quickly obeyed.
Upon exiting, Strock stood along the passenger side of the pick-up while Brother Paul
instructed several blank monks where to go, what to do, in a simple series of commands,
gestures, prompts actually, much like the way Strock had communicated with Ellie over the last
months. It was different with them than with Ellie because the monk blanks made no attempt to
speak.
Strock glanced across again at the monks at the edge of the property. They walked about
warily, carrying their rifles, staring into the wilderness surrounding the monastery, doing what,
he supposed, Brother Paul had taught them to do, like looking out for interlopers and perhaps,
shooting first and asking questions later.
“Ah, you see our guards,” Brother Paul said, turning to Strock. “Our protectors. We live in
dangerous times. I’m afraid that surviving has become a nasty, murderous business for some. So,
I’ve trained a few of my monks how to shoot, how to protect us, to be our army, the result of
which you saw back on the interstate.” With a sigh, he turned to Strock, smiled and asked, “You
must be hungry, my son? Let’s get something to eat, drink.”
“Yes, I could eat,” Strock said.
Brother Paul turned and ordered several monks to park the Challengers and truck in a gravel
lot and unload and bring the provisions packed in them to the dining hall. Then, while leading
Strock across the clearing, he commented, “As you’ll see, we have much to offer here at St.
Bart’s. I’ve taken patrols out to the surrounding towns, all the way to Pittsburgh, and gathered all
the non-perishable goods I could find. I have also led patrols and found some animals, the cows
you see out in the fields, some chickens, a few pigs, any unaffected by the hand of God, whose
minds had not, as you say, gone blank. I’ve brought them here, and we are keeping and breeding
some of them.” He smiled. “We’ve been drinking fresh milk again, and soon we’ll be eating
fresh steak and pork and chicken. Until then, you will have to do with whatever we can make out
of cans and packets taken from grocery stores.”
“I’ve been eating mostly that for nine months,” Strock said. “I can eat out of cans a few
more.”
Brother Paul and Strock soon reached the building that turned out to a spacious dining hall.
After walking through a small foyer, Strock followed Brother Paul down the narrow aisle
between the rows of long tables with folding chairs opened before them to a wide, well-equipped
kitchen. As ordered, a crew of monk blanks who had unloaded the food and supplies from the
Challengers into wheelbarrows soon arrived at the kitchen and proceeded to methodically place
them into the wide stainless-steel cabinets along three walls that already appeared nicely stocked.
Despite the warmth and humidity of the day, Strock selected a hearty minestrone soup from
the rather extensive array of cans, while Brother Paul chose a can of beef stew. Brother Paul then
ordered one of the monks assigned to the kitchen to heat their soup and stew in pans over a stove
fueled by a large propane canister. With a nod, he then led Strock to a table near the kitchen at
the front of the dining hall.
“Who are they?” Strock asked, nodding at the two monk blanks who’d been sitting in the
backseat of the pickup truck, and who had now accompanied them to the dining hall. They were
standing about halfway down the aisle between the rows of tables holding AK-47s gazing at
Brother Paul and Strock.
With a shrug, Brother Paul replied, “They are Brothers Jacob and Anthony—my bodyguards.
I have specially trained them to protect me. You understand, and I say this with all humility, but
the monastery could not survive without me. If I was killed, all this would come crashing down,
and the brothers who survived, who I helped survive, would…well, die.” He sighed. “So, I
decided I needed special protection. And those two, Jacob and Anthony, among a few others,
provide that protection.”
Strock nodded. For someone vested with so much responsibility over the lives of these
monastic blanks, it didn’t seem unreasonable that Brother Paul merited such special protection.
Strock’s thoughts were interrupted when a monk server exited the kitchen carrying a tray with
their steaming bowls of soup and stew. After placing the tray before Brother Paul and Strock, the
monk retired to the kitchen without a word.
Looking down at the bowls, Brother Paul shook his head. “The poor fool forgot our spoons,”
he said. He then got up, tramped into the kitchen and moments later returned with two spoons.
After handing one to Strock and sitting down across from him, the monk made the sign of the
cross and said, “Let us pray.”
Realizing that he intended to say grace, Strock closed his eyes and waited as Brother Paul
glanced upward and thanked the Lord Jesus Christ and his heavenly Father for the meal. With an
“Amen,” he dipped his spoon into the stew. After quickly slurping and swallowing the mixture
from his bowl, Brother Paul looked up at Strock and asked, “So, where were you going, my son,
when you were waylaid by those savages?”
 Nineteen
Holy War

Strock hesitated before revealing his plans to Brother Paul. There was something about him,
and this place, that gave him pause. But he decided to trust the monk and told him where he’d
come from and where he was going and why.
“That’s quite a story, my son.” Brother Paul leaned back, nodded, seemingly impressed.
“You’ve had quite the adventure. You are brave and resourceful man.”
“Thank you.”
“But,” Brother Paul went on, “what you want to do seems foolish. An impossible quest.” His
eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. “A suicide mission.”
“What choice do I have? I have to rescue Ellie. I… I love her.”
Brother Paul sighed, leaned back again and thought for a time. Finally, he nodded to the
monks behind him, his bodyguards, Brothers Jacob and Anthony, then turned to Strock and said,
“You realize, of course, like them, she’s lost her soul. The person she’s become is not the person
she once was or will ever be again.”
“I prefer to think that a part of what she used to be can be brought back.” He smiled and used
a word he thought the monk would understand: “Resurrected.”
Brother Paul shook his head and said, “There will come a time when you’ll accept—if you
haven’t already—that she can’t be brought back. Resurrected, as you say. None of them can.” He
sighed and fell silent, wanting to let Strock mull that over.
Finally, he nodded to the empty bowl before Strock. “Want more soup?”
“No, no thank you. I’m full.”
Brother Paul peered down at the table for a time, then looked up and said, “I know of this
prison, this Supermax. And of the Muslim who rules it. In fact, lately, he’s been very much on
my mind. Two weeks ago, one of my scouting parties happened upon one of their scavenger
sorties. By the grace of the Lord, our monks weren’t seen.
“The next day,” he went on, “I went out with the scouts, found the sortie, and followed it back
to the prison. It’s less than an hour’s ride from there. Of course, we’ve monitored the prison ever
since. Their sorties are creeping northward, as far as St. Clairsville along the Interstate only last
week. That’s only half an hour from here. I fear that a confrontation between us is inevitable.
Because of this, I’ve increased the training of the monks for war and added more to my army—
the guards with guns you saw policing the boundaries of St. Bart’s. How to shoot, when and how
to engage the enemy in battle, and unfortunately, the Lord forgive me, killing them in battle.
You’ve already seen the result of that training out on the interstate. I’ve tried to inspire my
soldiers with the Word of God, and of course, the need to defend this monastery at all costs, so
that the faith in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, will survive.”
“Can’t you petition them for peace? For the mutual benefit of both groups. For the survival of
mankind.”
Brother Paul smiled and said, “Peace? For fifteen hundred years Christians and Muslims have
been at war. They do not believe in the divinity of Christ, and say we are infidels, non-believers,
and thus unworthy of life. So, no. I doubt we can live in peace. Even after this calamity, the holy
war between Christians and Muslims continues.”
“That’s absurd,” Strock argued. “That world has ended. It makes no sense.”
“God has not left the world,” the monk replied. “The true God. And we must abide by his law
to save our souls. As stated in Scripture, ‘What will it profit a man if he wins the whole world,
yet forfeits his soul?’”
“But as a man of God, shouldn’t you at least try?” Strock persisted. “Didn’t Jesus say, ‘turn
the other cheek?’”
“The Lord permits one to defend oneself,” Brother Paul answered softly. “And even kill in
doing so. In the Book of Exodus, the Lord tells us, ‘if a thief is caught breaking in at night and is
struck a fatal blow, the defender is not guilty of bloodshed.’ As the type of Islam advocated by
the leader of this prison calls for the death of all Christians, we are allowed to defend ourselves.
And as I said, we are allowed to kill toward that end.” After a time, the monk added, “A holy war
in the name of the Lord is justified to defend our lives and especially, to uphold the Faith.”
Strock could think of no further response to Brother Paul’s position, no way to dissuade him
from it. Still, that a holy war might be fought between the monks of St. Bart’s and the Muslim
inmates of ADX Cumberland, despite mankind’s proximity to extinction, seemed the height of
absurdity.

The same monk who had served them returned to the table and removed their bowls. As he
placed them on the tray without comment or expression, Brother Paul said, “Thank you, Brother
Stephen.” After the monk bowed and trudged back into the kitchen, still without a hint of
emotion or a word, Brother Paul asked Strock, “I sense, my son, that you’re not a believer in the
divinity of the Lord Jesus Christ. That Jesus is the Son of God, our Savior.”
Strock frowned, not entirely sure, or liking, where this inquiry was going. After considering
his response, he replied, “I was raised Catholic. My parents took me to Church, but I must admit,
I haven’t been inside one in a long time, not since high school. I’m your classic lapsed Catholic,
I suppose. I—I guess, I’ve been distracted by everyday life.”
With a grave expression, Brother Paul nodded and said, “Yes, you are like most people. There
are indeed many distractions in the modern world,” he added, then laughed shortly, “or what
used to be the modern world. All-consuming jobs, television, the internet, sports, and of course,
lust, there is no room in one’s life for the Lord to provide meaning. But, now, I think, there is a
need more than ever to find one’s faith. Perhaps, that is why the Lord saw fit to bring down this
pestilence. To awaken us to the truth, to reality. Like he did in Noah’s time when He caused the
great flood—and before that, in smiting Sodom and Gomorrah—to rid the earth of evil,
irreligious men, the impious. And actually, this latest pestilence, wiping out the minds of men
has been foretold, in scripture.”
Strock frowned doubtfully as Brother Paul leaned forward and with a keen look, stated,
“There is Zechariah 14:12, for example. ‘And there shall be the plague with which the Lord will
strike all the peoples that wage war against the Faith: their flesh will rot while they are still
standing on their feet, their eyes will rot in their sockets, and their tongues will rot in their
mouths.’” He smiled and commented, “Isn’t that what has happened around us. The rotting
corpses, billions of them.
“And then, Ecclesiastes 9:5-6, ‘for the living know that they will die, but the dead know
nothing; they have no further reward, and even their name is forgotten. Their love, their hate, and
their jealousy have long since vanished; never again will they have a part in anything that
happens under the sun.’
“The mindless, soulless ones are like that, aren’t they?” Brother Paul said, his eyes wide,
seemingly filled with inspiration. “They know nothing, they have no further reward, and even
their names are forgotten to them. But some of us have been spared to help and guide them. The
Lord has seen fit to leave some of us untouched by his wrath, and He has left it to us to build a
new world order in which our faith in Him may be rekindled. To establish, at long last, a
Kingdom in His name on earth—a Kingdom of God—a kingdom where mankind shall rule with
Him and through Him and in Him, as it is in Heaven.”
Brother Paul’s rapt expression soon dissolved as he turned to Strock and said, “But I fear it
will take a long time, and we will confront many obstacles, in building this wondrous place. For
Satan is strong in each of us, the living and the sleeping. As noted in the Book of Revelations:
‘The rest of the dead did not come to life until the thousand years were ended. This is the first
resurrection.’” Nodding, he added, “And so, this is the first resurrection, as foretold.”
For a time, Strock said nothing. He had always resented the arrogant and self-righteous boasts
of those who preached faith in Christianity, or in the other man-made religions, including their
senseless predictions of the end times and the coming of a messiah. It had seemed quite puerile
and unscientific and self-serving, an irrational, ridiculous and simple-minded description of the
nature of God and humanity’s place in the Cosmos.
With these thoughts swirling around his mind, Strock found himself telling the monk, “I’m
sorry, Brother Paul, but I just can’t believe any of that.”
And he instantly regretted revealing this to the monk.
 Twenty
Captive

Brother Paul called for Brother Stephen, and when the monk emerged from the kitchen,
Brother Paul ordered, “Bring us wine.” The monk nodded emptily and returned with a tray
holding a carafe of red wine and two long-stemmed, crystal wine glasses. Brother Paul filled
both glasses and handing one over to Strock, he said, “It’s Cabernet Sauvignon.” After sniffing
the contents of his glass, the monk added, “From the Johnson Estates winery. Not far from where
your cabin was, I think. A fair wine, don’t you think?”
Strock sipped the wine and said, “Not bad. Thank you.” After the Plague, he’d brought some
bottles of wine as well as vodka, bourbon and rum, and a few six packs of beer, up the cabin
from the abandoned liquor stores in several towns. But he hadn’t consumed too much of it,
fearing what getting drunk might do to his psyche and physical well-being. Booze seemed the
last thing he needed in his quest to survive the end of the world in the woods while bringing Ellie
back from her stupor and making her the woman she’d once been. Still, every now and then,
especially during his darker moments, he’d drunk too much and passed out at some point during
the night only to awaken to an ugly hangover that stayed with him throughout the day.
Brother Paul raised his glass and said, “To the Kingdom of God.”
Strock frowned, then half-nodded, half-shrugged, and after Brother Paul had taken a sip from
his glass, he took his own.
“Ah, that’s good,” Brother Paul remarked and for a time admired the wine swishing around
his glass before taking another sip. After putting down the glass, he smiled at Strock and said,
“It’s one of God’s little pleasures left to us. We’ve brought back from the winery a good many
cases of wine, this one, and other varieties, though I enjoy red the most. They’re kept downstairs,
in the basement, and hopefully, we’ll have it for years to come.”
Brother Paul raised his glass again and said, “Another toast.” He waited for Strock to raise his
glass. “To your joining the brotherhood.”
As the monk sipped from his glass, Strock placed his on the table. After setting his down as
well, Brother Paul’s expression turned grim. Gazing into the monk’s eyes, Strock said, “I can’t
do that, join you. I told you, I’m going to the Supermax. I have to get Ellie out of there.”
“But as I said, my son,” Brother Paul replied, “that’s a suicide mission. Hopeless. You’ll be
captured, then tortured and murdered.” After a thought, he added, “Or worse, you’ll be converted
to Islam and lose your soul.”
“Still,” Strock replied, “I have to try.”
The monk shook his head. With a hard expression, he said, “No. God brought you here for a
reason—your salvation. Therefore, I cannot let you leave. That is contrary to God’s will. And
beyond that, your capture would put your life and eternal soul in jeopardy and expose St. Bart’s
to danger as well.”
Suddenly, he turned in his chair and with a wave of his hand, motioned over Brothers Jacob
and Anthony. The guards strode over with their AK-47s up and cocked and stood behind Brother
Paul’s chair with grim expressions.
Brother Paul turned to Strock and said, “No, my son, I can’t let you go. For the benefit of this
monastery, and yourself, you must remain here. And with God’s intervention, you shall become
a member of the brotherhood.”
“But I don’t want to stay here,” Strock said. “I don’t want to become a member of your
brotherhood.” He tensed and edged his chair back from the table. “And I don’t need your
permission to leave.” He stood and took a defiant stance.
Brother Paul sighed heavily, then after a moment, stood as well. “I’m afraid you have no
choice in the matter, my son,” he said. With a nod, he gestured for Brothers Jacob and Anthony
to raise their AK-47s and point them at Strock.
“I think you should come with us,” Brother Paul said to Strock.
“Come with you where?”
“To your room.”
Strock looked into the menacing eyes of Brothers Jacob and Anthony, their AK-47s aimed at
his chest, likely primed to fire should Brother Paul give the order. They were, Strock knew, like
all the other monks at St. Bart’s, Brother Paul’s slaves. He had succeeded in brainwashing them
over the last months to do his bidding and to help further his seemingly deluded mission of
establishing a mythical Kingdom of God on earth.
Brother Paul turned to Strock and said, “Don’t think I won’t have them shoot you. As I said,
protecting this monastery is my primary motivation. It is God’s will. Therefore, I cannot let you
go. You can either stand your ground, and I will order them to shoot you, or you come with us.”
For several tense seconds, Strock glared at the monk. He thought of making a run for it,
hoping Brothers Jacob and Anthony were bad shots. But he soon decided that was hopeless. He
had no other choice but to obey Brother Paul.
After a sigh, Strock nodded and said, “Alright. I’ll come.”

Once outside the dining hall, Brother Paul led Strock a short distance across the quad to the
main dormitory in a long, narrow, red-brick building. Brothers Jacob and Anthony remained a
few paces behind them with their AK-47s at the ready. Upon entering the dorm, Strock followed
Brother Paul down a dark hallway with thirty, ten-by-ten-foot rooms on each side. Roughly a
third of the way down the hallway, they came to an open door to a room on the left. Nodding at
the open door, Brother Paul said, “Here we are. Your room.”
Strock entered the austere, cramped room with rough plaster walls painted a light gray. There
was a small wooden desk along the wall with an armless wooden chair pulled up flush against it
and a worn paperback bible on top. A squat dresser was set against the adjacent wall under a
small, square window high up above it that afforded scant light. Brother Paul went over and
opened the dresser drawers revealing several brown hooded cassocks like the other monks wore,
small piles of underwear and tee shirts, and a cloth purse containing a toothbrush, bar of soap
and a washcloth. Astride the other wall was a narrow, hard bunk and under the bunk a pair of
sandals. Brother Paul informed Strock that there was a common lavatory at the west entrance of
the dormitory just past the entrance where he could relieve himself, shower and brush his teeth.
Brother Paul nodded to the bunk and said, “Sit down. Rest. You must be tired after all you’ve
been through.” As Strock did so, the monk went on, “I’m sorry, my son, to force you to stay with
us. But as I said, in time, you’ll accept that this was for the best. You’ll see that I saved you from
certain death and thank me for it. And you’ll be glad for it, glad for the opportunity to join the
Order, and glad for the opportunity to serve the Lord and help us establish His Kingdom on earth
from the ruins around us.”
 With that, Brother Paul turned and left the room, leaving Strock sitting on the bunk, alone in
the grim cell. The cell door shut with a thud, and Strock heard the clank of the door being locked.
 Twenty-One
Brother Franklin

Late that afternoon, a couple hours after he’d been locked in his room, Strock heard someone
fussing at his door. During those two hours, Strock had lain back on the bunk and quickly fell
asleep. It had been a long couple of days. Finally, the door opened, and Brother Paul stepped in.
Strock sat up on the edge of the bunk and looked up at the monk.
“You slept?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Good. Now, it’s time for afternoon vespers. Come.”
“Vespers?”
“Yes, vespers, the communal prayer. We gather every afternoon in the chapel and pray
together.”
“And you expect me to join you?”
“Yes, I do,” Brother Paul said in a calm, even voice. “We operate on a strict schedule at St.
Bart’s, Brother Franklin. And like the rest of us, you will abide by that schedule. We rise at four-
thirty and begin Vigils at five. Vigils are a series of twelve psalms sung in recto tono, or in one
note. You’ll get the hang of it. Vigils are followed by a reading of scripture, and right after that,
there is a period of personal reflection and prayer in the chapel, until six-thirty. Lauds, a morning
prayer, is sung until seven-fifteen, then we have breakfast in the dining hall. After breakfast, we
celebrate Mass and after Mass, there is a brief meeting during which work details are assigned,
and other matters are discussed. Work and private instruction follow. Each monk is assigned
some time to spend with me so that I can assess the status of his mind, whether he is growing or
regressing in his re-education.”
“You are checking how your brainwashing is going,” Strock commented. “Is that it?” Brother
Paul sighed, but before he could answer, Strock added, “And I’ve seen no women. You rescued
no women?”
Brother Paul pursed his lips and momentarily looked put off by the question. “I did not think
it advisable, hosting women,” he replied. “At least, not in the beginning. I feared it might sow
discord.”
With a frown, Strock said, “I see.”
Without further comment, Brother Paul continued, “Those not on guard duty or assigned to a
provisions or scouting patrol, gather again in the chapel at one o’clock for a short prayer. Then,
we retire to the dining hall for lunch, the main meal of the day. We eat in silence while listening
to readings assigned to various brothers.
“Lunch is followed by free time for most, when the brothers can rest or pursue private
interests. At three, there is Vespers—as I said, our communal prayer. Today will be somewhat
different, for I shall celebrate a special Mass to welcome you into the brotherhood.
“After Vespers, there is another period for private prayer or lectio divina, then supper at
seven. After supper, there is an hour or so of games in the recreation yard—basketball, kickball,
softball, horseshoes, bocce, whatever.
“The day ends with the office of Compline in the chapel from eight to eight-thirty, a period
for relaxing and reflection in the presence of each other. This is followed by the night silence
when the brothers return to their rooms to retire, read or pray, then sleep.
“We waver little from this regimen,” Brother Paul went on. “It seems to have worked well in
establishing a disciplined and orderly mind among the lost souls. And as I said, you will be made
to follow that schedule until your way of thinking has reformed.”
“Until I’ve been brainwashed like the rest of them, you mean.”
“No, until your eternal soul has been saved, and you are glad to be in service of the Lord.”
Brother Paul stopped at the doorway, and after a nod, Brothers Jacob and Anthony entered the
room. “But until then, I’m afraid you must be restrained.” After a nod from Brother Paul, the two
guards approached Strock. They raised Strock to his feet, turned him around, and then Brother
Jacob slapped stainless steel handcuffs on his wrists behind his back.
Brothers Jacob and Anthony, with their AK-47s now slung over their shoulders, led Strock by
his arms out of the room and escorted him behind Brother Paul, down the hallway, past the
lavatory, and out the west entrance to the dormitory. Once outside, still a few steps behind
Brother Paul, the guards walked Strock a short distance across the quad, up a short staircase, and
into a small stone chapel. After passing through a dark foyer, they entered the main church.
Strock noticed that only half the pews were occupied that afternoon by St. Bart’s surviving
monks and the blanks apprehended from Hollidaysburg in the days after the Plague. They stood
and stared forward with solemn unblinking expressions as Brother Paul entered into the chapel,
with Brothers Jacob and Anthony, and Strock, directly behind him, and strode down the narrow,
center aisle between the two rows of pews toward a bare altar.
After a few steps, Brothers Jacob and Anthony turned Strock into the first open row of pews.
They stood with him between them along the aisle as Brother Paul continued to the altar and
took his place behind an unadorned pulpit on the far-right side of it. Hanging along the wall
behind the altar was a simple, wooden cross. To the left of Brother Paul as he faced the
congregation from the pulpit was a table draped with a plain white sheet on which an unadorned
metal tabernacle had been set, inside of which, Strock supposed, was a chalice filled with paper-
thin Eucharists representing the body of Christ. Along both beige plaster side walls of the chapel
hung twelve framed ceramic stations-of-the-cross, six on each side, depicting Jesus’ suffering as
he was led to his crucifixion.
“Let us pray,” Brother Paul called out, his voice echoing off the high ceiling and plaster walls
of the chapel. He bowed his head and closed his eyes as did each of the monks standing before
him in the rows of pews. After a few moments, he raised his head and continued, “Oh, Lord,
through your grace, we have found our brother, Franklin, who, through your intervention, has
survived the pestilence with which you have justifiably smote all of mankind. And by your
grace, you have led him to us, to regain his faith and serve you in building your Kingdom on
earth. We implore you to fill him with the faith and wisdom and strength so that he will see the
error of his ways and join our humble brotherhood, and that you will inspire him to help us
further our mission in your name and honor.” Once again, the monk bowed his head. “Let us
pray.”
After a time, he opened his eyes, lifted his head and looked at Strock.
“Welcome, Brother Franklin. We pray that your sins shall be forgiven and that you shall open
your heart to the Lord. We pray that you are reborn in the name of Jesus Christ, His only
begotten son.”
Brother Paul looked out to the monks standing before him and said, “Let us welcome our new
brother! Welcome Brother Franklin!” he called out, they shouted as one voice, “Welcome
Brother Franklin!”
“Let us pray.”
 Twenty-Two
The Prodigal Son

In Strock’s honor, the gospel that afternoon was a reading from Luke 15:11-32—the parable
of the prodigal son. Following the reading, Brother Paul told the congregation that Brother
Franklin must come to accept that the Lord has led him here to be home with God’s family.
Looking directly at Strock, Brother Paul thrust out his arms and proclaimed with evangelical
glee, “You were lost, and now you are found!”
Then, still looking at Strock, the monk said, “Let us proclaim our profession of faith: I believe
in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible. I
believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all
ages…”
And on it went, with the other monks quickly joining in, their voices uniformly loud and
secure in reciting the Apostle’s Creed. As they droned on, Strock decided that Brother Paul was
using the mind-control technique of affirmation to impose his Christian beliefs on the minds of
the blanks who now comprised the brotherhood of St. Bart’s. Saying the words of the Creed each
and every day would go far in confirming the belief it espoused, especially upon the simple,
unspoiled minds of the blank monks.
Brother Paul then walked over and stood behind the draped table at the center of the altar.
After removing the chalice from inside the tabernacle, he looked upward and murmured the
solemn prayers required by the Church in preparing the Eucharist for consummation. When
finished, he looked out to his congregation and recited The Lord’s Prayer, with the monks again
quickly joining in, and even Strock, out of habit, mumbling along. With the prayer concluded,
Brother Paul called out, “Lord Jesus Christ, you said to your Apostles, ‘Peace I give you; look
not on our sins, but on the faith of your Church, and graciously grant her peace and unity in
accordance with your will in this difficult time. The peace of the Lord be always with you.”
The monks immediately responded in a forceful, heartfelt singular voice, “And also with
you.”
With a nod and kindly smile, Brother Paul said, “Let us offer each other the sign of peace.”
With that, the monks turned to each other and embraced momentarily, then turned around and
shook hands or hugged those behind them. The monks on each side of Strock, first Brother Jacob
to his left, followed by Brother Anthony to his right, briefly embraced him, their strapped AK-
47s flapping against their shoulders. As they did so, each of them whispered, “Peace be with you,
brother.” Strock merely grunted each time, unable to return or resist their embraces with his arms
cuffed behind his back.
Finally, the monks stood facing forward again as Brother Paul raised the chalice holding the
Eucharist above his head and offered the prayer, “Lamb of God.” After the prayer, holding the
chalice, Brother Paul walked to the front of the altar as the monks, starting from the row of pews
in the back of the chapel, stepped into the center aisle single-file and started shuffling forward up
toward Brother Paul so that he could place on each of their tongues the crisp, round wafer,
representing the body of Jesus Christ.
When it finally came time for Strock’s row to go up and receive the Eucharist, he had to be
nudged out into the aisle by Brothers Jacob and Anthony.
“Go,” Brother Jacob scolded with a fierce scowl.
“I can’t,” Strock protested after they’d pushed him out. “I haven’t received confession.”
Hearing this, Brother Paul smiled and called out from the altar, “My son, your sins are
forgiven. I have dispensed with a formal penance. You may receive the sacrament.” But as
Strock persisted in resisting going up to the altar, Brother Paul frowned and ordered Brothers
Jacob and Anthony, “Bring him up.”
As the two monks obeyed and heaved Strock toward the altar, he gave in and stumbled
forward. Within inches of Brother Paul, who stood three steps up on the altar, he plucked a wafer
out of the chalice and held it above Strock’s head.
“The body of Christ,” Brother Paul said. When the monk looked down and saw that Strock
had tensed his lips together and appeared unwilling to open his mouth, he whispered, “Please,
my son, don’t make me have them force your mouth open.”
Strock decided that further resistance was futile and would, in any event, do nothing toward
helping gain his freedom. Instead, if he cooperated, perhaps they would let their guard down over
time.
With a sigh, Strock relaxed, leaned his head back, and as he had done as a teenager many
years ago, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth. A moment later, he felt the crisp, bland
tasting wafer on his tongue. After Strock closed his mouth and felt the saliva start to dissolve the
wafer, Brother Paul smiled.
“Welcome home, my son, my prodigal son,” he called out for the entire congregation to hear.
“Welcome into the brotherhood of the Lord Jesus.”
 Twenty-Three
Simon Peter

Over the next eight weeks, Strock followed the unwavering, mind-numbing daily regimen of
the brotherhood at St. Bart’s. He was up each morning by four-thirty, followed by an invariable
schedule of prayers, meditations, chants, hymns, affirmations, a mid-afternoon mass, various
chores. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were spliced in between, until finally, by eight-thirty each
night, he returned to his cell in the dormitory with the other monks, dead-tired and ready for bed,
with only another toilsome day to look forward to upon awakening the following morning. He
ate and slept well, however, and remained healthy and fit.
Each morning during those weeks, Brother Paul met with Strock in his cell during scheduled
private meditations, always accompanied by Brothers Jacob and Anthony. During these
meetings, the monk read scripture, recited prayers with Strock—who mumbled them back
dutifully, preached the divinity of Jesus, and had Strock repeat various affirmations meant to
reform his beliefs.
After his initial resistance, fueled by anger at being prevented from continuing his mission to
rescue Ellie from the Supermax, Strock played along, pretending that the monk’s mind-altering
tactics were having the desired effect. Feigning cooperation seemed the only way to gain Brother
Paul’s trust, eventually providing him an opportunity to escape and resume his mission, suicidal
or not, too late or not, to save Ellie and Jack Flynn. Still, he faced the awful feeling with each
passing day that his chance of saving them was dwindling down to nothing.
After a month in captivity, Strock had asked Brother Paul about accompanying a scouting or
scavenging patrol. Considering the question for a time, the monk smiled, shook his head and
said, “It’s much too soon for that. I feel that you’re still not one with us,” and Strock
immediately regretted overplaying his hand. After that, he remained quiet and went along with
Brother Paul’s program for bringing him around, hoping at some point, the monk would begin to
trust that his mental tactics were working.
There were times, dark moments while following the brotherhood’s tiresome regimen, when
Strock’s desperation to escape reached fever pitch as his thoughts turned to the degradation and
torture Ellie must be experiencing at the prison. He also feared that with each passing day, the
warping of her mind was becoming irreversible. By the time he got to her, she might be
unreachable, forever out of his grasp, and her recollection of their love forever lost.
And, of course, there was no telling how badly Jack Flynn was being treated.
One morning after vigils, toward the end of his second month at the monastery, while Strock
was mired in these dark thoughts as he sat in a pew at the edge of the aisle in the chapel during a
time reserved for personal meditation and prayer, Brother Paul suddenly squeezed in next him
and whispered, “You must forget her, my son.”
Strock turned to the monk. He gave a weak smile and said, “I have.” Brother Paul shook his
head and smiled weakly as well. Strock knew that the monk did not believe him.

During those weeks, Brother Paul also used the odd psychological art of whispering in his
campaign to alter Strock’s thinking and beliefs. The first time, a few days after Strock’s capture,
he ordered Brothers Jacob and Anthony to place him on his stomach on his bunk, with his arms
cuffed behind him, and to hold him down while Brother Paul knelt by his side and whispered
into Strock’s left ear. During this session, and many others afterward, Brother Paul whispered a
series of strange mantras, songs and melodic refrains in a kind of secret language, certainly not
English—Latin perhaps, or in what the Christians called tongues. At first, it seemed like the
nonsensical babbling of a madman, but he soon found himself tuning into the monk’s hypnotic
murmurings and then suddenly drifting off into a kind of stupor.
“What is that?” Strock asked the monk after the first session. “What are you trying to do?”
“It’s whispering,” Brother Paul replied. “I mean you no harm by it. I mean only to cure your
soul.”
At first, the whispering sessions seemed to have no effect. Strock still resented his captivity
and desired to escape. But as the sessions continued each day during those eight weeks, together
with the prayers and rituals and affirmations of the brotherhood’s daily regimen, Strock began to
sense a subtle change in his thinking, a weakening of resolve. He couldn’t be sure and thought
perhaps that he was only imagining it, or perhaps he was suffering from the “Stockholm effect,”
a condition in which a hostage or prisoner-of-war develops a psychological alliance with his or
her captors as a survival strategy.
Only yesterday, during his morning visit to Strock’s cell, Brother Paul had smiled and said,
“You are adjusting well, Brother Franklin. In short order, you will be one of us.” Strock was
sitting on the edge of his bed while Brother Paul sat on the desk chair facing him. “Then, you
will become a leader among the brotherhood, my closest disciple.”
“Your Simon Peter,” Strock said.
Brother Paul flashed a smile. “Yes, Brother Franklin! My Simon Peter.”
Strock nodded. After a month of captivity, he was in a daze that morning, tired of the
regimen, tired of resisting. He had been thinking that perhaps Brother Paul was right—that his
plan to rescue Ellie and Flynn was indeed a suicide mission, doomed to fail, and he was far too
late to save them by now, at any rate. Right that Jesus was indeed the divine Son of God, and that
he should join with Brother Paul in converting all non-believers and to help him establish God’s
Kingdom on earth. And that, yes, he should become Brother Paul’s closest disciple, his Simon
Peter.
 Twenty-Four
The Note

After a whispering session with Brother Paul in Strock’s room had ended just before nine the
morning on the anniversary marking two months of his captivity, Strock accompanied him to the
chapel with Brothers Jacob and Anthony a few steps behind him. A week ago, Brother Paul had
dispensed with handcuffing Strock. It was a demonstration, Brother Paul had said with a smile,
of his growing trust in him. Still, Brother Paul required Brothers Anthony and Jacob to
accompany Strock wherever he went about the monastery, and Brother Paul had not yet assigned
any chores to Strock outside its confines.
While Brother Paul strode up the center aisle to the altar, Brothers Jacob and Anthony, with
Strock between them, edged into a mostly empty row on the left side of the aisle toward the back
of the chapel and stood waiting for Brother Paul to begin the mass. Moments later, a small, squat
monk with a round impish face squeezed in next to Brother Anthony. As the little monk settled
in, he glanced up at Strock and flashed a smile. Strock returned the smile with a nod, then stared
forward. Strock then realized that this was the same monk who’d flashed a mischievous grin at
him upon his arrival at St. Bart’s.
“Let us pray,” Brother Paul called out to start the mass.
With the others, Strock bowed his head, alone with his thoughts. As his captivity had
progressed, he’d felt a gradual change coming over him, a sense of belonging and comfort in the
chapel among his brother monks. Of being at home. He no longer ached as much for Ellie,
though there still were times when he fretted over her well-being and missed their days together
before the Plague. For the most part, he no longer profoundly disagreed with Brother Paul’s
admonitions that going after her was now certainly a lost cause and that his work at St. Bart’s
helping him, and the brotherhood, was the right and sensible thing to do, and far more important
to the whole of humanity. Strock attributed this change more to reason than to brainwashing by
Brother Paul.
The Mass that morning was the usual recital of liturgical prayers and chants and songs.
Finally, Brother Paul came to the expression of peace segment of the mass. As the little monk
standing along the aisle reached across Brother Anthony to shake Strock’s right hand, he forced
something into it. Instinctively, Strock closed his hand into a fist. In the next instant, the little
monk grabbed Strock’s left arm and tugged him down to him as Brother Anthony moved
backward to allow the gesture of peace. As he stepped upward on his tip-toes, instead of the
ritual, “Peace be with you,” the little monk whispered into Strock’s right ear, “Please read the
note and tell no one.”
After straightening and staring forward again waiting for the Mass to continue, Strock turned
his hand over, and lightly opened it. In the center of his palm, he saw a tightly folded, half-inch
square of paper. He clenched his fist shut and glanced over at the impish monk who turned ever-
so-slightly to him and nodded, then looked forward again. Strock looked forward as well. When
the Mass continued, he glanced at Brothers Jacob and Anthony who, with their brothers, seemed
to be praying. They had apparently not witnessed the exchange between the little monk and
himself.
 Strock kept his hand tightly clasped over the square of paper the remainder of the mass, even
as he went up for the Eucharist. After the mass, from the pulpit, Brother Paul announced chore
assignments and private instructional meetings with specified monks in his office. Strock had
met with Brother Paul many times over the past month, and to his chagrin that morning, he was
asked to meet with him again instead of being permitted to return to his cell for private prayer
and meditation.
When the Mass ended, Strock shuffled out of the chapel in solemn procession with the other
monks down the center aisle while Brothers Anthony and Jacob trudged behind him. Before
leaving the chapel, he turned to Brother Anthony and told him he needed to relieve himself.
Brother Anthony gave his permission with a silent nod, and Strock entered the bathroom just off
the foyer while Brothers Anthony and Jacob remained outside the bathroom door.
Strock quickly entered a stall, closed the door, locked it, and sat on the toilet. With a sigh, he
turned over his left hand, opened it and stared for a time at the small folded paper. Finally, he
plucked it out of his palm with the index finger and thumb of his right hand and quickly unfolded
it. Strock squinted as he read the small, neat hand-printing in black ink across the center of the
paper: I can think. I need your help. Brother James.
Strock frowned and re-read the note. If the little monk was not a blank and could think, as the
note claimed, that begged the question why he had kept it from Brother Paul all these months. He
also worried that the exchange of the note was merely a test of his loyalty, a way for Brother
Paul to determine whether his beliefs had truly been altered over the past month.
But reading the note had a much more profound effect on Strock—it rekindled his resolve to
escape from St. Bart’s and resume his quest to save Ellie and Flynn. It also awakened him to the
realization that Brother Paul had cast a kind of spell over him. The monk had nearly been
successful in imposing his beliefs on him and thus controlling his thought and action. After
mulling it over for a time, Strock decided to take a chance and keep Brother James’ note a secret
from Brother Paul.
Strock flushed the note down the toilet and left the stall. Minutes later, he was sitting in
Brother Paul’s wide office. The monk leaned back in an old swivel chair behind a simple, squat
wooden desk. Behind him was a credenza crammed with bibles and various other holy books. A
faded, cheap copy of DaVinci’s The Last Supper hung on the wall above the credenza. Strock sat
in an armless, plastic chair facing Brother Paul’s desk that he’d occupied many times over the
past weeks.
“You seem close to accepting the Lord, my son,” Brother Paul said and smiled
“I am, Brother Paul,” Strock said and sighed, thinking that until a few minutes ago, that
perhaps was true.
An urgent thought crossed him to inform on Brother James. But he suddenly thought of Ellie
and his former life and was pulled away, at least for the moment, from the new way of life being
compelled upon him by Brother Paul.
“I am pleased to hear that, Brother Franklin,” Brother Paul said. “Most pleased.”
Strock nodded, and as he left the monk’s office that morning, he felt as if he’d betrayed a dear
friend.
 Twenty-Five
Coup d’état

Strock remained troubled the rest of that day, and as he laid on his bunk that evening, the
disquiet churning within him kept him from falling asleep. Most of all, he was still upset with
himself for having fallen under Brother Paul’s spell over the past month.
Strock’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock of his door. A
moment later, the door slowly opened. Strock rolled around and sat on the edge of the bed as the
diminutive figure of Brother James crept into his cell. The little monk stopped, looked down at
Strock, smiled and whispered, “Hello, my brother. May I come in? Talk?”
“You’re already in,” Strock said. “Which begs the question—how’d you get the key?”
The little man walked over and sat in the chair at the desk next to Strock’s bed. Leaning
forward as about to reveal a great secret, he replied, “Like Brother Paul, I too have learned the art
of whispering. Though, I admit, I’m not nearly as good at it as he. This evening, after Brother
Jacob locked you in, I approached him in the hallway and whispered into his ear, convincing him
to give me the key.” He tittered and gleefully tossed the key into the air above the palm of his
right hand and watched it tumble back down, then looked back at Strock. “Of course, after we
finish our talk, I’ll return it to him and convince him to forget having given it to me. Though I
doubt that I could get him to do much more than such a small thing as give me a key.”
“What do you mean?”
“Having him, for example, kill another for me. I doubt my whispering could make him do
that. Hypothetically.”
“And who would you have him kill then, hypothetically?”
The little monk smiled and said, “Well, more of that later.”
Strock frowned wondering where this was going. Finally, he said, “So, you can think, as your
note said.”
“Yes, I can think.”
“Your note asked for help,” Strock said. “What kind of help?”
“Help in overthrowing him, the false prophet. Brother Paul.” He leaned forward with an intent
frown and whispered, “But I wonder if I am too late in the asking, that he’s already won you
over.”
“Won me over?”
Brother James frowned. leaned back and said, “Yes, won you over. Altered your mind. With
his trickery: his talks, meditations, prayers…his whisperings.”
Strock sighed and admitted, “Yes, perhaps. A little.”
“Well, consider this an intervention. To awaken you to the truth that Brother Paul is an evil
tyrant. And to convince you to help me oust him, for the good of the monastery. For the good of
mankind.” Brother James leaned forward again and added, “You see, the man’s become a first-
class megalomaniac. He’s intent on ruling the world, not saving it. He desires to build a
kingdom, not for God, not for mankind, but for himself.”
Strock paused in thought, then said, “And after he’s removed, you’d take over St. Bart’s. Is
that it?”
 “Why, yes, of course,” the little monk said with a smile. “Who else?”
“How do I know that you’re not a megalomaniac?”
Brother James grinned, seemingly amused. He pointed to himself and said, “Do I look like a
megalomaniac?”
“Why have you waited so long to do this? To overthrow him. Almost a year.”
“Well, for one thing, he’s stronger than me,” Brother James said, pointing to his diminutive
self. “Not only physically, as is obvious, but I am not ashamed to admit, mentally as well. And as
I said, his talent for controlling minds is better than mine. His mental tricks have worked. The
brothers have become dedicated to him. They follow and obey him without question.
“But now, with your arrival,” Brother James went on, “God has provided me a great
opportunity. You can be the strength I need to overthrow him. My ace-in-the-hole to trump him.”
“Why have you taken so long to contact me? I’ve been here two months.”
“I—I wasn’t ready. And I wasn’t sure of you, or your motives. I’m still not.” After a sigh, he
continued, “You know, there have been others he captured, like you, who could think. Two men
and a woman.”
“He told me I was the first.”
“He lies,” replied Brother James. “He always lies. No, there were three, early on, in the first
weeks. He tried to brainwash them, as he is trying with you, but he wasn’t as good at it then as he
is now, using his tricks. With the mindless ones, it’s easier. They can be trained to believe
anything. But his methods don’t work so well on those who can think. When these early ones
resisted and argued with him, he had Brothers Jacob and Anthony slaughter them. And unless
you completely bend to his will, and without question, accept the Word of God as he interprets it,
and accept him as your leader, you’ll be executed as well.”
“And how is your brand of faith any different?” Strock asked. “What kind of beliefs will you
impose once he’s gone?”
“My brand,” Brother James said, “is Christ’s brand. All I will demand is what Christ
demanded—that each of us love God, and each other, and from that, create a world in which we
can live in peace and help each other survive and improve our lives.”
“In these times,” Strock said, “I doubt that kind of world is possible.”
“Perhaps,” Brother James agreed with a slight nod. “But the alternative—the world Brother
Paul wishes to impose—is far worse. A theological dictatorship. It’s not the kind of world I want
to live in. It’s not the kind of world Jesus meant us to live in. And it certainly wouldn’t represent
the Kingdom of God on earth. That’s why, you must listen to me, wake up and reject him and
join me in deposing him. That is what this intervention is all about.” After a sigh, Brother James
asked, “So, will you help me? Or is my intervention already too late?”
After a time, Strock looked across at the little monk and said, “No, you’re not too late.” He
sighed and asked, “How do you propose to do it? Depose him?”
“It won’t be easy,” Brother James said, “but not impossible. He has control over most of the
brothers, that’s true. But I have gained a few converts of my own over the last few months, six
brothers, to be exact, using his mental tricks, the whispering and all that. I’ve trained them to do
what I tell them to do. They are loyal to me. For now, I’ve told them to lie low, follow the daily
regimen. Avoid controversy.
“As you know,” he went on, “Brother Paul has turned some of the brothers into his personal
army—like Brothers Jacob and Anthony, for instance, who guard you. I’ve counted fifteen of
them who would kill at his command and give their lives for him.”
 “So, what exactly is your plan?” Strock asked. “How do you overcome that, his army?”
“With this.” Brother James pulled out from within his cassock a black pistol. Strock
recognized it as a Glock. The little monk handed it to Strock and continued, “Tomorrow, when
you meet with Brother Paul in his office after the morning mass—which, I know, he’s done
every day since your arrival—you pull out this pistol and put him under arrest. While you are
doing that, my converts and I will surprise his army, and with God’s blessing, overcome them,
without bloodshed.”
“You have other guns?”
“Yes. Over the last few weeks, I have taken a few from a locked room in the barn where he
keeps them.” The little monk smiled. “I used the same whispering I used tonight to obtain the
key from one of his guards. There are many guns and rifles stored there. They haven’t been
missed.”
Strock looked away and thought about the proposal. Finally, he turned to Brother James and
nodded. The intervention had worked. He suddenly felt free of Brother Paul’s spell. He’d been
awakened to the truth—that, as Brother James claimed, Brother Paul was a tyrant driven by his
megalomania to pursue a false and wasteful mission. With that revelation, Strock had regained
his desire to resume his quest to save Ellie.
“Yes, I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll help you pull off this coup d’état.”
 Twenty-Six
Betrayal

The following morning, as Strock trudged with the other monks into the dining hall with
Brothers Jacob and Anthony escorting him, he wondered what he had gotten himself into.
Deposing Brother Paul now seemed a fantasy, as impossible a task as rescuing Ellie and Jack
Flynn from ADX Cumberland. Both were suicide missions. Strock debated whether he should
communicate to Brother James that he was withdrawing from his coup d’état, or better yet,
cement his position of trust with Brother Paul by reporting the little monk’s plan.
This internal debate continued in Strock’s mind after breakfast as he entered the chapel for
Mass and edged into a pew to the left of the center aisle a few rows down from the altar. As
usual, Brothers Jacob and Anthony stood on each side of him. At the last minute, Brother James
squeezed into the same row next to the aisle, separated from Strock by three solemn-faced, silent
monks. After nudging his way into the row, the little monk turned his head and with a smile,
briefly held up his right thumb, apparently to let Strock know that the plot was set, a go.
Strock’s thoughts were troubled further by Brother Paul’s choice for the gospel reading that
morning, from John 18:15-27, concerning Simon Peter’s denials that he was a disciple after
Jesus’ arrest. Seeming to settle his gaze upon Strock, Brother Paul recited from Scripture,
“Meanwhile, Simon Peter was still standing there warming himself. So, they asked him, ‘You
aren’t one of his disciples too, are you?’ He denied it, saying, ‘I am not.’ One of the high priest’s
servants, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, challenged him, ‘Didn’t I see you
with him in the garden?’ Again, Peter denied it, and at that moment a rooster began to crow.”
Strock suddenly looked down, avoiding Brother Paul’s eyes. Did he know something? Why
else would he offer this reading about the disloyalty of Jesus’ closest disciple? Brother Paul’s
sermon following the gospel reading was brief. He equated this verse to the need for one to
constantly remain vigilant against attacks on one’s faith and not allow outside pressures to
deflate it.
With his head still bent as if in prayer, Strock looked sideways at Brother James, but the little
monk stared forward, seeming oblivious to what seemed an obvious gospel reference to their
plot. But then again, was it? Brother Paul’s gospel reading of Judas Iscariot’s betrayal of Jesus
with a kiss would certainly have been more on point. That would have left Strock with no doubt
that Brother Paul knew he was planning to betray him.
Finally, Brother James turned to Strock and after a brief nod, offered another covert thumbs-
up sign. Strock quickly looked forward and was relieved to see that Brother Paul had turned and
was now addressing the monks occupying the pews on the other side of the chapel. He finished
his sermon shortly after that and continued his methodical course through the liturgy.
As they returned to their row after receiving the Eucharist from Brother Paul’s steady hand,
Brother James sneaked a smile at Strock, and for the third time, flashed the thumbs-up sign. He
repeated the gesture in the foyer as they shuffled out of the chapel with the other monks. As they
walked out of the chapel into the bright, sunny mid-August morning, the little monk turned to
Strock, smiled and mouthed, “Good luck.” Strock gave a short nod, and Brother James flashed a
brief smile.
 At the end of the morning mass, as expected, Strock had again been ordered to meet with
Brother Paul immediately thereafter. As he trudged across from the chapel to the headquarters
building with Brothers Anthony and Jacob walking on each side of him, he reached inside his
cassock and felt for the cold steel of the black Glock. Over the last couple of weeks, Brother Paul
had not required that Brothers Anthony and Jacob accompany him into his office for the morning
meetings. This morning was no different.
Strock sat in the armless chair before Brother Paul that morning and wondered again what he
had gotten himself into. He also wondered whether Brother James and the monks converted to
his cause were in the process of executing their part of the coup, overcoming and disarming—
hopefully without violence—Brother Paul’s army. And how would Brothers Anthony and Jacob
react? Would he be forced to kill them as they rushed in to save Brother Paul? None of these
contingencies seemed to have been worked out by Brother James’ plot.
“You seem troubled this morning, my son,” Brother Paul said.
Strock looked up at him with a frown. “What, Brother?”
Brother Paul removed his arm from inside his cassock and pointed a pistol at Strock. “Has it
something to do with a little monk named Brother James?” He stood and called out, “Brothers!”
Brothers Anthony and Jacob immediately trotted into the office.
“Stand him up and hold him,” Brother Paul ordered, and they quickly obeyed, grabbing onto
Strock’s shoulders and lifting him to his feet. Brother Paul stood and strode around his desk. He
reached into Strock’s cassock and quickly found the Glock that Brother James had given him the
previous night.
“So, you haven’t become my Simon Peter,” Brother Paul said. “You have become my Judas.”
He turned to Brothers Anthony and Jacob and said, “Take him outside.”
Brother Paul strode ahead of them to the quad outside the admin building. When Strock was
shoved out into the bright morning sun in the clutches of Brothers Anthony and Jacob, he saw
that Brother James was already out there, standing in a line with six expressionless monks,
staring forlornly at the ground, his face bruised. Behind them stood Brother Paul’s army pointing
AK-47s at their backs.
Brother Paul strode toward the captured monks with Strock, pushed by Brothers Anthony and
Jacob, immediately behind him. As they approached, Brother James looked up at Strock and
gave a helpless shrug. In the next moment, he bent his head just as Brother Paul stopped before
him holding the Glock pistol that he had taken from Strock. A curl of a malicious smile formed
on his lips as he crouched down and peered up at Brother James’ downcast gaze. Brother Paul
straightened and gestured for Brothers Anthony and Jacob to bring Strock over.
“Stand him next to him, my other Judas,” Brother Paul ordered. After Strock was brought
over and was turned around and stood next to Brother James, Brother Paul remarked bitterly,
“My two Judases, now side by side.” After letting out a hiss, he began to pace before them. After
a time, he stopped. Scanning his audience of blanks, he raised his arms and called out, “What
shall I do with these traitors to God?” He sighed and started pacing again. Finally, he stopped
before Brother James within a few inches of his face and cried, “Why have you forsaken me?”
“I have not forsaken you,” Brother James said, staring directly into Brother Paul’s eyes. “You
have forsaken the Lord.”
Brother Paul maintained a malevolent stare. Finally, he turned and spat onto the ground.
“You are a traitor to the Lord!”
 “No,” whispered, Brother James. “You are.”
For a time, Brother Paul stood glaring at the little monk. Watching this, Strock wondered if he
should make a break for it, take his chances by sprinting off into the woods, or by throwing
himself upon Brother Paul and wrestling the pistol from him. But the chances of success, in
either case, seemed remote. Instead, he decided to bide his time. Perhaps, Brother Paul would
exercise Christian mercy.
“You thought you could fool me?” Brother Paul asked the little monk and laughed. “I knew
from the beginning that you hadn’t lost your mind, that you were faking it. From the first time
we met for prayer and meditation, the light of your soul was still in your eyes, and from that day
forward, I watched you.
“I knew when you started recruiting some of our brothers and turned them against me. I knew
when you stole pistols from the barn. And I also watched as you recruited Brother Franklin for
your evil plot to betray the Lord.”
Brother James suddenly looked up and hissed, “I haven’t betrayed the Lord. You have.”
A tight, malicious smile crossed Brother Paul’s lips as he raised the Glock and pointed it at
Brother James’s head. His frown deepened, and Brother Paul steadied his arm and said, “May the
Lord have mercy on your soul.” Then, as Strock called out, “No!” Brother Paul pulled the
trigger. Strock watched in horror as a bullet ripped a hole through the little monk’s forehead.
Swaying where he stood, Brother James’ eyes widened, and with an almost surprised expression,
his legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground.
Strock let out a short, anguished bark as Brother Paul looked down with a self-satisfied grin at
Brother James’s body sprawled out on the ground before him. None of the monks around him
moved. They seemed unmoved by Brother Paul’s cruelty.
“I thought you were a man of God!” Strock howled. “Is there no mercy in your heart?” He
fully expected his execution to immediately follow but did not fear it. He felt only anger rising in
him for Brother Paul’s cold-blooded murder of the little monk. He stood defiantly as Brother
Paul turned to him, suddenly calculating when he might make a break for the woods to the right
of the quad.
“Eliminating evil is justified,” Brother Paul replied in a soft, even voice. “It is the will of the
Lord. They will make war on the Lamb, and the Lamb will conquer them, for he is Lord of lords
and King of kings, and those with him are called and chosen and faithful.” His frown deepened
as he raised the pistol and pointed it at Strock. “I had such plans for you, Brother Franklin. You
were to become my beloved disciple and help me build the Lord’s Kingdom on earth. Instead,
you have betrayed me. And so, you too must die. I can no longer trust you. You have no faith in
the Lord.”
Strock took in a breath, then broke for the trees. He lost his footing momentarily as he strode
forward a few yards from the tree-line but kept his balance, and it was this act of leaning forward
and almost falling that saved his life. The bullet from Brother Joseph’s pistol shot an instant after
Strock had bolted stayed level and missed Strock’s head by half-an-inch. In the next moment,
Strock had regained his stride and made it into to the stand of trees that marked the entrance to
the thick, dark woods.
“After him!” shouted Brother Paul as Strock kept running.
 Twenty-Seven
Thunder

As Strock entered the cover of the trees and brush and began to sprint, zigzagging as he ran.
He heard another pop, likely from Brother Paul’s pistol. The bullet went astray and blasted out a
chunk of an oak tree that Strock had passed. There was yet another pop after that, and another
missed shot.
And then, from somewhere outside the monastery, Strock heard what at first sounded like a
rumble of thunder. Sprinting deeper into the woods, he soon realized that he wasn’t hearing an
approaching rainstorm, or anything natural. It was the roar of Harleys speeding down Monastery
Way toward the driveway to St. Bart’s.
After running a few paces deeper into the woods, Strock sensed that he wasn’t being chased,
that the attention of Brother Paul and his army had turned to the roar of the approaching Harleys.
He turned and snuck back toward St. Bart’s and hid behind a thick maple tree, giving him a clear
view of what was going on in the open quad from which he had run. Peering out from behind the
tree, Strock saw that Brother Paul and his secret police had crouched into defensive stances and
pointed their rifles toward the driveway.
When the twenty or so Harleys broke into the clearing, it was already too late for Brother Paul
and his men. Each of the bikers had their rifles up and had started firing. Several monks
immediately fell where they stood.
Brother Paul gave the order to retreat, and Strock watched as the armed monks backed away
toward the admin building while shooting at the riders of the Harleys. The other monks,
including those that had been recruited by Brother James, broke ranks every which way, some
even running into the woods past the tree behind which Strock was standing. Many others,
however, didn’t make it and were cut down as they ran by the bikers’ gunshots.
The bikers soon parked their Harleys in a neat row and hunkered down behind them, rising up
every now and then to shoot at Brother Paul and his small army as they edged slowly backward
in retreat. The monks returned fire, and their bullets pinged and clanked off the Harleys. Strock
squinted from behind the tree and lost his breath when he spotted that Osama Omar was among
the bikers crouched down behind his Harley shooting at the monks.
After a time, Strock noticed that the monks who had run into the woods past him were
running back toward St. Bart’s. He turned and saw why. A mass of blanks dressed in what
appeared to be gray prison-issue jumpsuits were marching through the woods in the same
direction carrying AK-47s at the ready. Strock immediately swung around to the other side of the
Maple and crouched down as low as he could get. The blanks—undoubtedly former inmates at
ADX Cumberland—were marching past him. Seconds later, Strock watched as they strode out
fearlessly from the trees, raised their rifles and started firing at Brother Paul and his monks.
As the battle raged, with the clap of rifle fire continuous from the quad only a few yards
before him, Strock rolled around to the other side of the tree and stood up flush against it. He had
only one option: run. After a gulp of air, he pushed off the tree and started running deeper into
the woods.
Something exploded in the quad, likely a grenade. Startled, Strock stopped and looked back
toward it. Smoke billowed from somewhere back there. Seconds later, there was another blast.
That was enough to get Strock moving again and soon, he had distanced himself from the battle.
The pop…pop…pop of gunfire and blasts from more grenades faded as Strock ran deeper and
deeper into the forest. After a time, his sprint settled into a jog, and then a brisk walk. Of course,
he had no idea where his escape might take him.
Forty-five minutes later, he stumbled out of the woods onto a deserted stretch of Interstate 99.
He bent over to catch his breath, put his hands on his thighs and started laughing to himself,
overcome with relief. He had escaped. He was free of Brother Paul, free to resume his quest to
rescue Ellie and Jack Flynn. Still, he wondered how the battle was going back at St. Bart’s, and
which side in the eternal holy war between Muslims and Christians had won.
From the west came a rumble of real thunder. He looked that way and saw an ominous band
of low storm clouds approaching.
 Part Three
The Supermax
 Twenty-Eight
Claysburg

As Strock trudged south along Interstate 99, he prayed that he’d soon come upon an exit. It
was still morning, around ten or so, and he was thirsty and hungry, and his legs hurt after what
had been a physically and mentally exhausting last couple of hours and days. Thankfully, the
thunderstorm to the west appeared to have skirted north. Otherwise, the sky was a thick haze and
it promised to be another hot and muggy day in late August. Though spent, he needed to move
on and stop someplace where he could rest for the night and then, in the morning, find a vehicle
and load up on provisions and guns for the trip down to Cumberland, Maryland.
Strock remained close to the shoulder of the highway as he plodded onward in the morning
heat, ready to scurry into the woods should he hear approaching vehicles or motorcycles.
Presently, the road was empty, eerie and silent except for buzz of insects and chirping of birds.
But that could change in an instant.
After a couple of miles, he came upon a Toyota Camry that had left the highway and crashed
into a thick tree at the far edge of a grassy area between the shoulder and the entrance to the
woods. Except for the mangled front end of the car, the rest of it appeared undamaged and
possibly operable. Strock surmised that the driver’s foot had come off the accelerator when his or
her mind went blank the morning of the Mind Plague, and the car had skidded and slowed before
slamming into the tree and stopping and eventually shutting off.
After strolling over to the car, Strock peered into the driver’s side and saw the badly
decomposed body of a man whose face had been eaten away and blackened by insects and
bacteria. A rotting suitcoat clung to the thinned-out corpse. Next to him was the corpse of a
woman in a similar state of putrefaction. Her blouse and jeans were soiled, and her body leaned
back against the passenger seat with her ghastly skull locked in a gruesome grin. Strock couldn’t
guess the ages of the man and woman. Side by side in death, the corpses looked ghoulishly
unreal, like a scene in an amusement park house of horrors. Strock doubted the driver and his
passenger had been killed in the crash. They had died later, unable to think as they sat in the
Camry, staring forward for the hours it took them to starve to death. Where the couple had been
going no longer mattered.
Strock saw a water bottle in one of the holes in the center console that looked unopened. As
he went around the front of the car, he saw that the damage was more extensive than he’d
initially thought, enough so that it was unlikely it would run. With a sigh, he continued around
the car to the passenger side, and after pulling open the door, he stuck his head inside the car and
was hit with a terrible stench of rotting flesh and mold. Gagging, he backed out, bent over and
took a deep breath to stop himself from retching. After his stomach settled, he decided that he
was thirsty enough to hold his breath and lift the water bottle out of the center console. He strode
back to the car, stuck his head into the passenger side and leaning over the body of the dead
woman, grabbed the bottle. He quickly pulled himself out with it and held his breath for a time as
he staggered away from the Camry up toward the shoulder of the interstate.
Strock stood there, leaning forward with his hands on his hips. Finally, he straightened in the
humid haze. After screwing off the cap of the water bottle, he bent his head back and gulped
down the warm but thirst-quenching liquid.
After that, Strock slogged on for an hour and a half, traversing almost six miles, before finally
happily spotting a large green sign in the distance telling him that the exit to US Route 22 and
the town of Claysburg was a mile ahead. He let out a whoop and whooped again when he finally
walked up to the sign and slapped the aluminum pole it was set upon.
Despite his tired legs, thirst, and hunger, Strock quickened his pace around the exit ramp. He
let out a groan in his otherwise silent surroundings as he entered US Route 22 and saw that
Claysburg was another two miles ahead. After a deep breath, he tramped forward.
Half an hour later, Strock sighed with relief when he came upon a “Welcome to Claysburg,
pop. 4329” sign at the edge of the small, rural town about a hundred miles east of Pittsburgh. A
half-mile or so before that, he had started seeing abandoned and neglected houses and a couple
of businesses—a used car lot and car repair garage—on both sides of the road. After leaning
against the welcome sign for a brief rest, Strock resumed his walk down Route 22, now called
“Main Street,” into the town. The eerie silence of the street, like every other time he had
encountered one, made his skin crawl. He was reminded of a Twilight Zone re-run he’d seen as a
kid in which the last man on earth is trying to find someone, anyone, in yet another deserted and
silent town. The dread of the scene was heightened by the site of decomposed, skeletal corpses
strewn about the streets.
As Strock entered the deserted business section with the restaurants, taverns, and various
stores dark, devoid of patrons, he saw that nature was starting to take back the streets and
buildings now almost a year without human life. In several spots along the road, he noticed that
grass and weeds were sprouting through cracks in the asphalt and cement and even on some
rooftops. It wouldn’t be long before the town would melt away and become one with Nature, a
patch of land unrecognizable from the surrounding woods. Mother Nature, it seemed, would
easily forget that the human species had ever existed.
 Twenty-Nine
187 Albert Drive

Just beyond Claysburg’s business district on Main Street was Becker’s Mart, a small, once
family-run supermarket housed in an old squat building with green shingle siding and a narrow
asphalt parking lot out front. It’s shattered front glass window told Strock that scavengers had
been there and taken stuff—a slave gang, or perhaps the ADX Cumberland patrol that Brother
Paul’s scouting party had spied weeks ago in St. Clairsville just south along the interstate.
Strock went over and peeked inside. Confident that the store was deserted, he stepped over the
bottom ledge of the smashed-out window into it. Browsing down the aisles, he was surprised that
there were still plenty of cans of soups, stews, vegetables, sauces, tuna fish and other foods on
the shelves, as well as boxes of cereals, crackers, and bags of potato chips and pretzel bags, dried
foods, packets of Slim Jims and beef jerky, juice boxes, toilet paper and paper plates and
detergents, and half a rack of plastic-wrapped bottled water cases. He also found that the stock
room in the back of the store was still crammed with cardboard boxes containing food and
supplies.
Strock grabbed a can of tuna from one of the shelves, several packets of beef jerky, a box of
crackers and six water bottles and put them into a plastic bag. He’d return tomorrow once he had
a vehicle and load up more provisions for his trip down to Cumberland. Before leaving the
market, he found a circular stand with maps and took one for Pennsylvania and an atlas of the
United States featuring all state maps. After that, he hurried out of the supermarket through the
smashed window into the late morning haze. He walked four blocks down from the supermarket
along Main Street, then randomly turned left down a pleasant enough, tree-lined side-street that
ran up a low hill. A green sign on an aluminum pole told him it was Albert Drive.
After walking down the street, he stopped in front of a quaint old Cape Cod house at 187
Albert Drive. Like all the other similar houses up and down the street, grass and weeds had
grown tall in the front yard and were overtaking the front porch, making it look as if the house
had been in foreclosure for a while. Still, it appeared sturdy enough and was secure from the
elements with no broken windows and the roof still intact. Strock felt it was as good a place as
any to quench his thirst, eat something and get a few hours’ sleep before resuming his rescue
mission down to Cumberland in the morning.
After strolling down a long narrow driveway that stretched back along the left side of the
house, Strock found a late-model black Nissan Rogue parked in front of a one-car garage. It was
open, but the keys were missing. He hoped that, like the Jeep Cherokee in Salamanca, he’d find
the key inside the house.
Backtracking to the porch, he found the front door locked. Strock lifted a wooden chair from
the corner of the porch and used it to shatter the front bay window. After clearing away the
shards of glass from the frame, Strock stepped into a musty, dark parlor with furnishings and
decorations that were worn, musty, and old-fashioned. After stalking around downstairs for a
time, he found a narrow staircase and climbed up to the second floor. Off the short landing, there
was a cramped, dark hallway separating three small bedrooms and a narrow bathroom.
At the other end of the hallway, Strock found the master bedroom. Pushing open the door and
stepping into the dark room, he saw the rotted corpse of a smallish, elderly woman on the bed
under the covers. Long, straggly, gray hair framed her skull. She was yet another of the many
men, women, and children who died in their beds with their eyes wide open.
On the far wall of the bedroom, there was a large framed portrait of a man and woman who
looked to be in their seventies. The woman in the portrait was surely the dead old woman in the
bed. She had been a handsome lady, tall and thin, with intelligent blue eyes and glimmering
silver hair. The man next to her, undoubtedly her husband, was good looking and distinguished
and stared out at the photographer with a slight, proud smile. As Strock had found only the old
woman’s corpse in the bed, he guessed that the man in the portrait—her husband—may have
pre-deceased her some time ago. If he had survived the Plague and gotten out of bed, there was
no evidence of him anywhere in the house.
Strock left the widow’s bedroom and stopped in the hallway to examine more framed portraits
of her and her husband and children and grandchildren at various ages hanging on the walls.
After another sigh, he walked into a second bedroom with a queen-sized bed and a squat white
dresser. Across the hall, there was a third bedroom with two narrow beds separated by a night
table. Must be guest rooms, Strock decided, used when the children and grandchildren had come
for a visit from wherever. It was sad for Strock to think all that was gone. A family, like his,
wiped out.
Strock decided on the first guestroom with the queen bed to take a nap for a couple hours. He
cast off his hooded cassock and used the bathroom off the hallway between the two guestrooms
to relieve himself. Afterward, he leaned on the vanity and stared into the mirror above it. What
he saw surprised him. No longer was he the clean-shaven lawyer so sure of himself. Instead, he
looked like a bum on the run from civilization—a wild-eyed man with a long, thick beard. For
the roughly two months of his captivity at the monastery, like all the other monks, he hadn’t
shaved. That hadn’t been a priority of Brother Paul, and his face and sideburns were now thick
with a stark black manly growth. He remembered that Jack Flynn’s beard had likewise been
bushy and decided that he needed to keep his that way. From his readings before the Plague, he
seemed to recall that Muslim men grew beards to imitate the prophet Mohammed, and if he was
to impersonate an inmate blank like Flynn had, he’d need to keep his.
After leaving the bathroom, Strock laid down with a sigh on the soft bed and stretched out
with his hands behind his head. But a few moments after closing his eyes, he heard the groan of a
truck and the gurgle of motorcycles driving past the intersection of Albert Drive and Main Street
telling him that he was no longer alone in the little town of Claysburg.
 Thirty
Trading Places

Strock left the house and ambled down Albert Drive, careful to use a succession of trees along
it as cover until he came to the intersection with Main Street. There, he turned right and snaked
his way behind buildings trying to locate where the vehicles he’d heard roar past had gone.
Finally, he slinked behind an old, sagging building formerly housing a barbershop and shoe
repair store that was adjacent to the small parking lot of Becker’s Mart. Peeking around the
corner of the building, he spotted a white box truck backed up to the same smashed front window
of the supermarket that he’d walked through less than an hour ago.
For a time, he watched as bearded, long-haired men dressed in drab gray jumpsuits—the same
jumpsuits he’d seen the inmates who’d attacked St. Bart’s wearing—push shopping carts stacked
with cardboard boxes to the back of the truck and hand them up to a couple of their comrades.
Blanks, Strock thought.
Standing at the back of the box truck was a tall, slim man, also in a gray jumpsuit, with a
straggly beard, thinning blonde hair to his shoulders, and dark tattoos along his arms and neck.
His arms were across his chest and every now and then, he’d blow on a silver whistle attached to
a sash around his neck, or bark orders and insults at the men pushing the supermarket carts. This
one, Strock decided, was no blank.
On the other side of the box truck, Strock also spotted three motorcycles parked in a row.
Standing in front of them with AK-47’s cocked and ready, were three bearded guards.
After watching for a few minutes, Strock concluded that this must be a sortie from ADX
Cumberland sent north to scavenge for provisions. He also decided that this was his chance. He
could do what Jack Flynn had done and corner one of the inmate blanks alone, kill him and
assume his identity as one of the nameless inmate blanks. Of course, that was easier said than
done. Plus, he didn’t relish the idea of killing another human being. But there seemed no other
choice. Anyway, the man he’d have to kill had not only been bad enough to merit imprisonment
in a Supermax, but he’d likely been brainwashed to murder non-believers in furtherance of Abu
al-Shahab’s quest of imposing a worldwide Islamist caliphate.
Strock trotted back to 187 Albert Drive and from the garage out back, he retrieved a rusty
hammer. Then, from a drawer in the kitchen, he grabbed a sharp, heavy steak knife. His plan was
to enter the stock room at the back of Becker’s Mart, and with a whole lot of luck, zero in on an
inmate blank working alone away from his comrades. After sneaking up and cracking him over
the back of his head with the hammer, he’d stab him to death and then hide the body behind
boxes or something. He’d then take off the inmate blank’s jumpsuit, remove his old, smelly
cassock, and put it on. Of course, he’d have to somehow manage to do all that without being
noticed by the other blanks and then fool the nasty commander of the sortie. It would be difficult
and risky, certainly a longshot, and he was already tired and worn out after a long and difficult
day, but this was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.
Strock ran out of the house and hurried back to the supermarket. This time, he approached the
back of it, hiding behind a frame house that had been converted to a dentist’s office years ago.
From there, he saw a narrow driveway along the rear of the supermarket leading to a small
loading dock. After a moment’s indecision, Strock got moving. It was now or never.
After quickly crossing the driveway, he hopped onto the loading dock and made his way to a
door at the back of the stockroom. He opened it a nudge, peeked inside and quickly spotted his
prey—a solitary inmate blank about his age, height and weight, lifting boxes onto a dolly in an
unlit, far-left corner of the room. Along the wall behind the blank, Strock noticed a door with a
sign, “Manager.” Strock then glanced to his right and counted two other inmate blanks loading
boxes onto their respective dollies seeming oblivious to anything else. His victim, he decided,
would have to be the inmate blank to his left.
Strock moved deliberately into the stockroom, veered left and then skirted behind several
piled-up cartons until he was within a few feet of the chosen inmate blank. He held the hammer
tightly in his right hand and the knife in his left. After a breath, he crept out from behind the
carton just as the blank was lifting a box on top of three others already on his dolly. With the
blank’s back to him, Strock hustled over and brought the hammer down on the back of the
blank’s head. The crunch and thunk of his skull shattering and the blood spurting out of the
wound sickened Strock momentarily but did not stop him from launching a second blow, this
time to the side of the blank’s head. The blank fell to his knees with a groan. After a third blow,
the blank fell forward, unconscious, or perhaps dead.
After glancing toward the other side of the stockroom, Strock dragged the blank’s limp body
by its armpits into the manager’s office. As Stock dropped him onto the floor, the blank’s eyes
stared lifelessly up at the ceiling. He unzipped the prison-issue gray jumpsuit and pulled the
blank out of it. After stripping off his brown monk’s cassock and tossing it behind a cluttered
desk, he slid into the jumpsuit which, as he had hoped, was a close-enough fit.
With the unconscious, or already dead, inmate blank now in his skivvies on the floor of the
manager’s office, staring lifelessly upward, Strock knelt down by his side, drew a breath, then
raised and thrust the knife deep into his midsection. There was a crunch of tissue and bone being
cut through by the knife blade, with blood oozing out a moment later. If the hammer strikes
hadn’t killed the blank, the knife thrust certainly would.
Strock used his cassock to clean blood and tissue from his hands and the knife blade, then
carefully tucked the knife under his right shirtsleeve, cupping it into the palm of his hand to keep
the blade away from the skin of his arm. No telling when he might need a knife to defend himself
once inside the Supermax.
Having secured the knife, Strock stood and stared down at the hapless inmate blank he had
just killed. After a sigh, he turned and peeked out of the office doorway into the stockroom. The
two blanks on the other side were just now pushing their dollies through the door into the
customer section of the supermarket.
Strock bolted from the office and trotted over to the dolly of the now dead blank. After
heaving another box on top of the others, he pushed it forward. Within moments, he had caught
up with the other two blanks and followed them toward the smashed window at the front of the
store. There, he stopped and watched as the first inmate blank, then the other, turned their dollies
around and slowly pulled them over the bottom frame of the shattered window. The commander
blew his whistle and shouted at them to hurry it up as Strock followed their lead and turned his
dolly around and pulled it over the frame while backing out of the window.
This is the hard part, Strock thought. Fooling the commander. Could he really pass for the
blank he had just killed? With his beard and dark hair, and now wearing the gray jumpsuit,
Strock felt that he really didn’t look much different from the inmate blank he had just killed.
 “Move your ass,” the commander grunted as Strock lingered with his back to him, careful to
keep his face sideways, away from his view. He also was careful to hold onto the knife clutched
by his right hand under the sleeve of his jumpsuit.
“You hear me, dumb-ass? Move it!” The commander then let out a growl, looked up into the
hazy sky and cried out, “I’m sick of this friggin shithole in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania.”
Strock pulled the dolly back another step before turning around and pushing it the rest of the
way to the rear of the box truck. As he did so, he forced himself to remain expressionless, staring
forward with his lips completely relaxed, trying not to react, pretending that he was a blank. He
didn’t frown and blinked only once.
As he approached the back of the truck, it seemed that the commander was squinting his way,
as if noticing something about him was out of sync. Strock squeezed the knife handle, ready to
use it should the commander accuse him of being an imposter. But suddenly, to his relief, the
commander turned away and spat.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” he growled as Strock lifted the box from the top of the dolly and handed
it up to the inmate blank along the edge of the rear of the truck. “Move your asses.”
As he handed up the second box, Strock sighed. It appeared, for the moment, that he had
pulled it off. He had traded places with an inmate blank and was going to get inside the
Cumberland Supermax.
 Thirty-One
The Commander of the Faithful

Half an hour later, the rear compartment of the box truck was jammed with boxes containing
food and supplies taken from Becker’s Mart. The commander blew a whistle, and Strock
followed along with the other inmate blanks, taking a spot at the end of a single line at the back
of the truck. Standing before them with a sour expression, the commander said, “I know this is a
waste of time, but let’s all state the friggin sha-had-duh.” He seemed to be talking more to
himself than to them, and Strock got the impression that the commander served Abu al-Shahab
only out of self-preservation and had no faith in their creed.
The shahada, as Strock would later learn, was a Muslim’s declaration of faith. He also would
come to learn that the inmate blanks were required to repeat it regularly before and after every
mission or act of service, and several other times during the day. Strock decided it must be one of
many brainwashing techniques used by Shahab like those used by Brother Paul with the monk-
blanks back at St. Bart’s.
“So, let us begin,” the commander said.
As he and the other blanks started the shahada chant, Strock lip-synced along with them.
“Ajh shaduanlaa ilaha illa Allah, wa ash shadu anna Mohammadar Rasul Allah.” Or, in
English, “I bear witness that there is no object of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that
Mohammed is the Messenger of Allah.”
Immediately following the chant, the commander pointed to Strock and two of the inmate
blanks, and said, “You three, in back.” Nodding to the other four blanks down the line, he added,
“The rest of you, up with me.”
The two inmate blanks standing next to Strock seemed to understand and immediately pulled
themselves up onto the narrow opening along the truck’s rear compartment at the edge of the
boxes of supplies. Grabbing onto the knife hidden in the sleeves of his jumpsuit, careful to not
cut himself, Strock lifted himself up after them. Once up there, he followed along as the two
inmate blanks slid down along the boxes behind them and sat, bending their legs under their
haunches. At the same time, the commander rolled down the back door and cranked it shut,
thrusting Strock and the two inmate blanks into pitch darkness. Strock accepted that it was going
to be a long, uncomfortable ride back to the prison.
As the three-motorcycle escort gurgled to life and started in a line out of the Becker’s Mart
parking lot, the truck’s engine sputtered to a start and lurched forward. Strock bounced and
rolled with the two inmate blanks as the truck lumbered out of the parking lot and took a left turn
onto Main Street. Five minutes later, he was pulled sideways with the blanks as the truck
negotiated the wide curve of the entrance ramp onto the southbound lanes of Interstate 99.
As the commander shifted gears and the truck grudgingly reached cruising speed, Strock tried
adjusting himself to get into a more comfortable position. After a couple of minutes, with his
legs going numb under him, he decided that standing would be far preferable to sitting. After he
stood, the two blank inmates riding with him glanced up at him emptily but said nothing,
apparently content to sit there with their haunches burning under them.
For the next forty-five minutes, Strock leaned against a heap of cardboard boxes in the narrow
space between him and the back door as they rumbled toward Cumberland, Maryland. Finally,
the truck slowed as it exited the interstate against a curved ramp. As it did so, Strock could still
hear the motorcycles cruising somewhere up ahead. The truck sped up again along a two-lane
road until, after another ten minutes, it made a sharp right turn tossing Strock against the wall to
the left of him.
After a short drive, they finally came to a rolling stop, then backed up, made a wide turn and
lurched to a stop. The engine shut off and soon after, the back door was unlatched and rolled up,
letting in the glare of the late afternoon sun. Squinting, Strock saw that they had backed up onto
a loading dock at the rear entrance to a modern-looking, tan-colored brick warehouse.
As Strock jumped down with the two inmate blanks from the rear compartment, he marveled
that only eight or so hours ago, he’d been shot at by Brother Paul as he bolted for the trees. Now,
by some fantastic quirk of fate and timing and luck—whether good or bad, he still wasn’t sure—
he’d arrived at ADX Cumberland in furtherance of his quest to rescue Ellie and Jack Flynn.
“Get your slow friggin infidel asses moving!” the commander shouted as Strock, and the other
inmate blanks assembled haphazardly at the back of the truck. “Start unloading this crap into the
warehouse.”
But in the next moment, everything stopped as a tall, lanky man with a thick, black beard and
lush brown hair down to his shoulders, wearing a long white robe and a white cap, known by
Muslims as a kafi, emerged from the shadows of the warehouse through the wide back door.
Following him was an entourage of five or so other white-robed, bearded, long-haired men also
wearing kafis. Three others who, like Strock, wore prison-issue gray jumpsuits, walked out of the
warehouse behind the bearded, white-robed men carrying AK-47s.
As the tall man and his entourage strode forward onto the loading dock, the commander
bowed to him, flush with surprise and deference. In a hushed voice, he said, “Amir al-Mu'minin!
Allah Akbar!” He turned to Strock and blanks and shouted, “Attention. Antibah!”
Strock knew that “Allah Akbar!” meant, “God is Great!” and was a customary Muslim
greeting. He would later learn that “Amir al-Mu’minin” meant, “Commander of the Faithful,”
and was used to address a person deserving great respect and deference. Even without knowing
that then, Strock felt certain that the tall man for whom the commander was showing such
deference and respect must be none other than Sheik Abu al-Shahab.
 Thirty-Two
In the Supermax

After stating, “Allah Akbar,” in obligatory reply, Sheik Abu al-Shahab strode past the
commander to the back of the truck. Seeing the inmate blanks and Strock milling about back
there, the commander barked, “Form-up, you asshole idiots! Mustalah lighabiin ghabiin!
Antibah!” The blank inmates were jolted into action, forming a single, straight line. Moving a
moment after them, Strock took the last spot at the end of line and like them, stood at stiff
attention.
After peering up into the rear compartment of the truck for a time, al-Shahab turned and
nodded to the commander and said, “Masafat jayida.” The commander frowned, not seeming to
understand. The Sheik sighed and said, “Your Arabic must improve, Brother Welker. You must
work at it. Knowing curse words alone will not suffice.”
The commander bowed his head and replied, “Yes, Amir.”
After a sigh, al-Shahab further admonished, “And you must refrain from cursing the brothers.
Recall what The Prophet said, ‘The believer does not slander, curse, or speak in an obscene or
foul manner.’”
Again, Welker bowed and said, “Yes, Amir.”
The Sheik’s eyes were crystal blue, piercing, and as Strock observed, his expression could
change from harsh and damning one moment to gentle and satisfied the next. He smiled, and
patting the commander on the shoulder, said, “Altahaliy bialsabri, wasawf yati. Be patient, it will
come. As it is written, ‘Serve him and persevere in his service.’ God willing.”
“Yes, Amir,” said the commander.
Glancing up into the truck again, the Sheik turned to Welker and said, “It is a good haul,
Brother Welker, by the grace of Allah.”
Bowing his head again, Welker said, “Šukran, Amir.”
Sheik al-Shahab smiled as he turned to the inmate blanks standing at attention before him.
Like them, Strock stared blissfully forward. The Sheik looked up into the sky and said something
in Arabic, seeming in praise. After a sigh, he stepped forward and whispered something into the
ear of the inmate at the other side of the line from Strock. Moments later, the Sheik stepped
sideways to the blank next in line. Strock recognized at once that the Sheik, like Brother Paul,
was practicing the art of whispering.
As Shahab came down the line of blanks, Strock felt himself tense. He stared forward, trying
to remain calm and bland, thoughtless, imagining what it was like to be a blank. Finally, Shahab
stepped sideways and stood directly in front of Strock. Strock clutched the knife under his left
sleeve and thought of bringing it out and thrusting it into the man’s chest, ending his dreams of
conquest. But in the next moment, the Sheik leaned forward and whispered into his right ear an
Arabic phrase. Like the inmate blanks before him, Strock nodded, and muttered, “Allah Akbar.”
With a satisfied nod, the Sheik stepped back. As he turned to Welker, Strock let out a breath.
Somehow, he had fooled the Commander of the Faithful.
Looking again up to the boxes stuffed into the back of the box truck, Shahab said, “Yes, a
good haul, Brother Welker. By the grace of Allah, you and your men have done well.”
 “Yes, by Allah’s grace. Thank you, Amir—I mean, šukran. And there’s still more to take
from the supermarket. Tomorrow, we can go back and get the rest.”
The Sheik shook his head and said, “No. Tomorrow, you go further north. On a different
mission.”
“Where, Amir?”
“To a place where many infidel Christians have tasted Allah’s wrath and will,” the Sheik said
and smiled. “We must collect the booty that remains there and burn the bodies of the fallen
infidels and our brothers who now rejoice in Heaven and will help us continue the jihad, God
willing.”
Welker nodded, though still not clear where the Sheik was sending the sortie he was to
command the following morning. But Strock knew. They were going to St. Bart’s.
 Thirty-Three
Home Sweet Home

After the Sheik and his entourage left the loading dock, Welker blew his silver whistle, the
signal for the inmate blanks to unload the truck. The coordinated, methodical process, without
much coaching from Welker, was completed in less than an hour. Strock followed along as best
he could.
With the truck now empty, Welker ordered the inmate blanks back into formation. As they
formed a single line, Strock was a beat behind them in taking his place at the end of it.
“Back to your cells,” Welker barked. He blew the whistle, then stalked off to the front of the
truck. After pulling himself up into the cab, he drove to a lot astride the warehouse where a
hodgepodge of similar box trucks and other vehicles were parked. As he did that, the inmate
blanks, and Strock began a slow march to wherever their cells were inside the Supermax.
The Supermax was a sprawling modern complex of tan-brick buildings across thirty-seven
acres of flat, bland landscape in northwestern Maryland. The main complex was a massive tan-
brick hexagonal structure with cellblocks designated Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta and Echo
connected by short, windowless corridors. In the time before the Plague, each cellblock had
housed the worst of the worst prisoners. Approximately one-hundred fifty terrorists, anarchists,
serial murderers, and other notorious, arch-criminals occupied tiny, austere, sound-proof cells
made from poured concrete. The rear portion of Cellblock Echo had served as death row for
those prisoners whose crimes were so heinous as to merit the federal death penalty. The long
narrow hallway stretching out from the connecting corridor between Cellblocks Beta and Charlie
led to a squat building behind the hexagon for the offices of the warden and other administrative
staff. Yet another hallway led to a series of classrooms and finally, to a small, though well-
equipped medical clinic.
The complex was surrounded by twelve-foot-high fences topped by circular spools of razor-
sharp, silver barbed wire. Look-out towers were evenly spaced just inside the fence. Before the
Plague, they had been manned by guards ordered to shoot first and ask questions later of anyone
trying to breach the fences from outside or inside the perimeter. Presently, those towers were
manned by disciples of Sheik al-Shahab. Finally, in an immense area behind the administrative
building was the recreation yard, a concrete rectangular pit resembling a vast, empty Olympic-
style swimming pool.

As Strock marched along with the inmate blanks from the warehouse into the circular hallway
of the main control unit, he looked up at a wide stairwell leading to a room with tinted glass
windows that before the Plague had been manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,
by federal prison guards who monitored each of the prisoners in their cells on banks of computer
screens. The room was now empty and dark. Apparently, Sheik al-Shahab had felt it unnecessary
to assign his few followers who could think for themselves to watch the inmate blanks, confident
that they had become brainwashed to serve him and Allah. That, of course, was a good thing as
far as Strock was concerned.
A quarter of the way around the circular hallway in the control unit, the inmate blanks ahead
of Strock turned left into a short, windowless corridor leading to Cellblock Alpha. After reaching
the open door to the cellblock, they turned right and continued striding mutely forward past cell
after cell lined up close together along the inner wall. Finally, toward the end of the corridor,
without a word, the blanks, one after the other, started pulling open doors and entering cells.
After the last blank ahead of him had entered his cell, Strock stood out in the corridor for a
moment before walking a few steps forward, then pulling on the metal handle that opened the
pneumatic door to the cell before him. The cell was empty, and as he stepped inside and let the
door shut behind him, Strock presumed that it had belonged to the inmate blank he had killed
back in Claysburg only three hours ago.
He stood just inside the doorway examining the layout of the cell, his new home. Like every
other cell at ADX Cumberland, it was an unwelcoming seven-by-twelve-foot cubicle made from
poured concrete with the floor and walls painted a dull gray. In the corner to the immediate right
of the entrance, there was a stainless-steel combination sink and toilet. In the far corner, there
was a six-and-a-half-foot-long, four-foot-wide concrete shelf attached to the wall about three feet
up from the floor. The shelf was the inmate’s bed, covered by a thin plastic mattress and thin
cloth blanket. At the foot of the bed stood a concrete combination stool and three-foot square
slab four feet off the floor that apparently was meant to be a desk. Across from the bed in the left
corner of the cell was an open shower stall. The last thing Strock noticed was a narrow slit high
up on the far wall that let in a dismal sliver of light.
After a sigh, Strock thought, here I am, home-sweet-home.
 Thirty-Four
Salah

Strock walked to the center of the cell and took in its stark, claustrophobic bleakness. The
door had shut without locking, and that made him feel somewhat less uneasy. He took the knife
out from within the sleeve of his jumpsuit and hid it under the thin mattress covering the bed,
then sat down on it and scanned the room. He saw nothing to identify the former resident. There
were no framed photographs of family, a wife or girlfriend hanging on the walls or propped on
the desk and no other personal mementos or artifacts.
Strock spotted a thick paperback on the far-right corner of the cement shelf that served as a
desk. He got up and went over and picked it up and saw the book was a copy of the Quran. He
opened it and along the top right corner of the first page saw the name, “Faisal Ahmed,” printed
in blue ink.
Strock squinted for a time. He knew that name. Finally, it hit him. Faisal Ahmed had been in
the news a few years back for plotting, with three or four other Islamic terrorists, the murder of
hundreds of men, women, and children as they made their way into the Magic Kingdom at
Disney World on the tenth anniversary of 9/11. The vile conspiracy had been thwarted, however,
and Ahmed caught and given a life sentence—served here at the Supermax—when bomb-
making material exploded late on the night of September 9, 2011, in the Orlando apartment
Ahmed and his co-conspirators had been renting. It had killed one of them and seriously
wounded the others, including Ahmed. Learning that Ahmed, who the press had dubbed, “The
Disney Bomber,” had planned the murder of hundreds, including innocent children, in
furtherance of some crazed version of Islam, made Strock suddenly feel better about having
killed the man.
Strock set down the paperback Quran, and after slipping off his boots, walked over and laid
down on the hard bed. He closed his eyes, but before drifting off to sleep, suddenly realized that
the abusive commander, named, “Welker,” must have been none other than Kenny Welker, the
founder of a white nationalist group known as the White Army of God. Some years ago, he and
his fellow white supremacists had been sentenced to death for killing a number of black men and
women during a march in Mobile, Alabama after a police shooting of an unarmed black teen a
week earlier. Following his conviction, Welker had somehow escaped, only to be caught by
federal marshals three months later. He was promptly shipped to death row in Cellblock Echo at
ADX Cumberland.
Strock found it ironic that the one-time leader of the vehemently Christian and anti-Muslim
White Army of God now served a Muslim sheik and prayed to Allah. The world had truly
changed.

Strock stared up at the ceiling for a time wondering what was next on the agenda of an inmate
blank upon returning to his cell in the late afternoon after completing an assignment. After
another yawn, he closed his eyes, hoping to nap, when he heard strange mumbling from the
inmate blanks in the cells on each side of his own.
Strock pushed himself off the bed and after slowly opening his cell door, he stepped out into
the empty corridor and walked over to the cell to the left of his. He placed an ear to the door and
listened to the inmate blank occupant mumbling something.
Reaching for the metal door handle, he cracked it open and peeked inside and watched as the
inmate blank, facing the far wall, jumped around in a crazed, uncoordinated dance, while
chanting something in Arabic. Strock would later learn that this blank, along with the others in
every other cell of each of the five cellblocks that afternoon, were performing the Salah, a
bizarre, unintelligible, individualized ritual, performed five times a day, in which a Muslim
stands, bows, prostrates himself, and sits on the ground, in whatever order he desires, while
reciting Islamic verses and prayers in praise of Allah and to assist him in fulfilling his jihad.
Strock closed the door and hurried back to his cell. Though he had no idea at that time what
he had just witnessed, he decided to mimic what the blank in the other cell had been doing. Upon
taking a spot in the middle of the cell with his back to the door, he lifted his arms skyward,
bowed suddenly, dipped to the ground in a crouch, then hopped forward on his haunches. After a
few seconds, he dropped onto his stomach and wiggled comically on the floor, all the while
mumbling nonsensical words in a kind of fake Arabic and every now and then, laughed at how
silly he must have looked.
Finally, Strock realized that the cellblock had gone silent. He crept out of his cell and peeking
again into the next cell, saw that the inmate blank occupying it had laid down on his concrete bed
in the far-right corner and appeared to be napping. Strock decided that after this long day, that’s
what he desperately needed to do as well. He backed away, entered his cell and laid down on the
hard bed. In a few moments, he was fast asleep.
 Thirty-Five
Bedtime

Strock eventually fell asleep and after an hour or so, woke in a fetal position to the sound of
boots slapping against the floor in the corridor just outside his cell. As Strock propped up on an
elbow, his heart skipped a beat as he saw the door open. An inmate blank walked in and with a
slight bow, deposited a tray onto the floor of his cell. On the tray was a paper plate with some
kind of chicken and rice dish piled onto it. Next to the plate was a small water bottle. Dinner had
apparently been served. He pushed himself off the bed, retrieved the tray and brought it over to
the concrete desk.
The plate had no utensils, as it was customary for Muslims to scoop food from a plate with the
thumb, index, and forefinger of the right hand. Even without knowing such custom at the time,
Strock was hungry enough to use his fingers to shovel the rice and chunks of chicken into his
mouth. He quickly cleaned his plate, even licking up stray kernels of rice, morsels of chicken and
gravy. He then opened the water bottle and gulped it down.
After finishing the meal, Strock peeked out of his cell door and saw that dinner trays had been
deposited on the floor in the corridor to the right of the neighboring cell doors. He placed his tray
with the empty plate and water bottle on the floor as well, and within minutes, inmate blanks
trained to do so came by with a cart and collected the trays and presumably took them back to
the Supermax’s kitchen.
Once the trays were gone, Strock heard more shuffling feet in the corridor. His door was
cracked open again by an inmate blank who this time deposited a prison-issue gray jumpsuit and
a pile of skivvies on the floor of his cell. He quickly stripped off his jumpsuit and skivvies, found
a cloth bag next to a small dresser that contained soiled clothing of the former, and now dead,
resident of the cell, Ahmed Faisal, and like the inmate blanks in the cells around him, deposited
the bag outside the cell door. Moments later, an inmate blank crew came around wheeling a large
laundry bin. They collected the soiled clothing left for them in the bags by their fellow inmate
blanks, and now Strock, and tossed the contents into the bin. After leaving the empty laundry
bags at the edge of the cell doors, they moved quickly down the corridor.
After observing this, Strock had to admit that al-Shahab had created a well-oiled army trained
to perform simple and necessary tasks to keep it fed, clean and ready. As Strock had observed in
the battle for St. Bart’s, this silent, determined army would make a formidable foe once
unleashed on what was left of the world.
Strock sat on the bed and wondered what was next in the daily routine of an inmate blank. He
laid back and dozed off again, only to be awakened after an indeterminable time by the clumping
of boots out in the corridor outside his cell.
He went to the door and opened it a crack. Three rows of inmate blanks marched together in
harmonious lock-step down the corridor, heading somewhere with purpose. He quickly put on
his boots and walked out into the corridor to join the inmate blanks to wherever they were going,
supposing that it was something Ahmed Faisal would have done. Not a single inmate blank
objected as he joined the march. Only when he was out in the corridor, striding with them, did
Strock realize he had forgotten to take the knife. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need it.
He strode forward with the inmate blanks to a doorway that opened to a quad outside the
hexagonal cellblock. He followed along with them to a staircase that led down into the concrete
recreation pit resembling an empty swimming pool. Inmate blanks from each of the cellblocks
were likewise clambering down other staircases into the pit. Looking up to the front of the pit,
Strock saw that al-Shahab and a handful of others, including Kenny Welker, were standing at the
ledge looking down at the gathering inmate blanks. After assembling, Strock stood shoulder-to-
shoulder amongst the entire inmate blank population. Like them, he stood stiffly, staring up at
the Sheik and his entourage, trying to blend in.
After a time, al-Shahab raised his arms and looked up into to the darkening, purplish-blue sky.
Finally, he shouted, “Allah Akbar!” and a moment later, his entourage, and each of the blanks,
with Strock a beat behind them, replied, “Allah Akbar!”
The Sheik looked down and smiled and stated something in Arabic, and a moment later, the
blanks in unison, with Strock trying to mumble along with them, chanted the shahada, the
Islamic declaration of faith, “Ajh shaduanlaa ilaha illa Allah, wa ash shadu anna Mohammadar
Rasul Allah.”
“Al'iikhwa,” Sheik al-Shahab went on, the Arab word for “brothers.” Scowling, he launched
into a vicious, growling speech, in Arabic. Of course, Strock couldn’t understand a word of it.
The Sheik’s fiery dialogue continued over the next ten minutes in a flow of sizzling Arabic
rhetoric unintelligible to Strock.
Finally, al-Shahab looked up to Heaven and recited a closing prayer. With that, the Sheik and
his entourage turned and strode away from the edge of the recreation pit with their white robes
flowing behind them as they returned to their cellblock. The blanks, as they had been trained to
do over the past months, methodically started shuffling out of the recreation pit for the trek back
to their cells. No one said a word.

Upon returning to his cell, Strock laid on his bed for a time staring up at the ceiling. He
considered what to do next in finding and freeing Ellie and Jack Flynn. Thankfully, there seemed
little supervision of the inmate blanks that would prevent him from sneaking around the
cellblocks during the night. So that became part of the plan. Later that night, once the blanks
were fast asleep, he’d leave his cell and roam about, getting the lay of the land at first, and in the
process, hopefully get lucky and find out where Ellie and Flynn were being held.
In the meantime, Strock decided to learn how the blanks in the cells around him were
spending the evening. There was just enough light coming through the slit of a window in his
cell, enough to tell him the sun hadn’t quite set. With that, he guessed that it was around eight-
thirty on that evening in late August.
After a time, he crept out of his cell in his socks and padded over to the cell to his left.
Opening the door a crack, he saw that the blank was at his desk flipping pages of his paperback
Quran and mumbling its verses to himself. Whether the blank truly understood and derived
wisdom from what he was reading and mumbling, was impossible for Strock to determine.
Strock crept over to the cell to the right of his own and saw that the blank occupying that cell
was likewise sitting at his desk, dutifully reading his Quran, as was the blank in the cell down the
corridor after that. So that was it, Strock decided. The blanks had been programmed by al-
Shahab to spend their evenings immersed in the verses of the Quran.
Upon returning to his cell, Strock sat at his desk and started flipping through Faisal Ahmed’s
copy of the Quran. After about fifteen minutes of reading Arabic words incomprehensible to
him, Strock heard footsteps coming from the left side of the corridor outside his cell. He tiptoed
to the cell door, opened it an inch, and peeking out, saw Kenny Welker coming his way, opening
door-after-door of the cells, then popping his head inside for a time, likely confirming that the
blanks were dutifully reading their Qurans, before moving on to the next cell.
Strock shut the door and hurried back to his desk. He opened his book to a random page
toward the middle and started mumbling what he thought the incomprehensible words sounded
like. Moments later, Welker opened his cell door and looked inside, and shortly after, the door
slowly closed and snapped shut.
Welker’s surprise inspection made Strock question his plan to sneak out of his cell later that
night and roam around the cellblocks searching for Ellie and Flynn. After giving it some thought,
he decided to go through with it, but do it later, certainly after midnight. Even Sheik al-Shahab,
his disciples and worker bees like Welker had to sleep.
Having had enough of staring at meaningless Arabic words, Strock laid down on the bed,
hoping finally to nap. He didn’t want to sleep through the night and miss his chance to explore
the cellblocks, but he needed rest after the long last twelve hours. Not long after dozing off, a
horn blast awakened Strock. He sat up and listened as two more blasts reverberated from
recessed speakers in the ceiling of his and every other cell, and from speakers spaced along the
ceilings of the exterior corridors in each of the cellblocks. A moment later, a garbled voice
announced something in Arabic.
Strock snuck out again and peeked into the cell to the left to his. He saw that the inmate blank
occupying it was now lying on his bed, on his back with a sheet covering him. His eyes appeared
closed. The horn blast and the Arabic announcement could mean only one thing: It was bedtime
in the Supermax.
 Thirty-Six
Zawjas

Strock quickly fell asleep despite the hardness of his bed. He woke with a start sometime deep
into the night. He sat up and mulled implementing his plan to explore the prison. The fear of
getting caught, and the torture that would follow, immobilized him. Finally, he concluded that
his only option was to get moving and achieve the improbable task of finding Ellie and Flynn
and getting them and himself out of the prison and on their way to a new life at Mount Weather.
After a breath, Strock pushed himself off the bed and slipped into his prison jumpsuit. He
reached under the mattress for his knife, then walked over to the door. He opened it a crack and
looked up and down the corridor. It was silent, dark, deserted. The inmate blanks were fast
asleep, shut down for the night like mindless automatons. With sunrise, they’d awaken and off
they’d go to dutifully perform some assignment in service to Sheik al-Shahab and his version of
Allah.
After another breath, Strock strode out into the empty corridor. He decided to go left and see
where that took him. Hugging the inner wall of the corridor past the cells, he slinked toward an
unknown destination. Shortly, he came to the open door into the mini-corridor that led into
Cellblock Bravo. At the end of Bravo, Strock came upon another short corridor leading into
Cellblock Charlie. As he approached the end of Charlie, he heard muffled voices from around
the corner and stopped and stood flush against the wall. Clutching the handle of the knife, he
thought of calling it a night and hustling back to his cell. But after several seconds, the voices
didn’t seem to be approaching him but rather were engaged in a conversation before one or more
of the cells around the corner in Cellblock Charlie. After a time, Strock edged forward to the
edge of the mini-corridor separating Bravo and Charlie and slowly stuck out his head to glimpse
what was going on.
He immediately spotted Kenny Welker and two other men. One of the men wore a long white
robe, with a kafi on his head, indicating that he was a member of Sheik al-Shahab’s inner circle
of disciples and not an inmate blank—perhaps one of the men among the Sheik’s entourage on
the warehouse loading dock the previous afternoon. The other man with Welker wore a gray
prison jumpsuit telling Strock that he was probably a blank. What delighted Strock was that it
didn’t appear any of the three was armed. Huddling before Welker and the two other men were
six women wearing long, black burqas with a small mesh slit across their eyes.
“Just what I could use tonight, a good lay,” Welker said. He then turned to the white-robed
one. “What are they called, Brother Abdul? Sharmuta?”
“No, Brother Welker,” Brother Abdul said. “These women are not sharmuta. As the Iman has
advised, brother, your Arabic must improve. A sharmuta is a whore. These women are zawjas.
Wives. They will soon provide us, we brothers in Allah, with many sons, God willing.”
Welker laughed derisively and said, “Yes, Sheik al-Shahab has many zawjas, and he will
father many sons.”
“If that is Allah’s will, Brother Welker, yes,” Abdul said, not getting Welker’s amusement.
Strock watched as Welker, Abdul, and the blank formed the women into a tight group and
then started herding them the other way, to the end of the corridor into the hallway that Strock
presumed led to Cellblock Delta. When he could no longer see Welker and the two other men, or
hear their voices, Strock emerged out of the shadows of the mini-corridor and scurried into
Cellblock Charlie. He went to one of the cells somewhat down the corridor and pulled on the
door handle. The door didn’t budge. Looking through the small, square window on the upper
door into the cell, Strock saw a figure wearing a burqa under the covers of the bed. He wondered
if this woman could be Ellie, or worse, that she had been one of the women being escorted to
Cellblock Delta, to be raped by Sheik al-Shahab or one of his disciples.
Strock moved to the next cell and saw another woman lying on the bed under the covers,
apparently asleep. After that, he peeked into fifteen other cells, each occupied by women, each of
them sleeping.
After the last cell door down the line wouldn’t budge, Strock muttered, “Damn.” He had no
idea how the locking mechanism worked. He also had no idea whether Ellie was among any of
the women he’d seen that night. He gave an exasperated sigh and decided that there was nothing
left to do except return to his cell and consider his next move.
Strock cheered himself a little with the thought that his mission that night had, in truth,
succeeded. At least he knew where Ellie might be held captive. All he had to figure out was how
to rescue her.
 Thirty-Seven
Barbecue

Back in his cell, Strock laid on his bed for a while staring up at the ceiling trying to figure out
what to do next in his quest to rescue Ellie. But his thoughts soon turned bitter, wondering how
many times in the last month she’d been raped by the likes of Sheik al-Shahab, his disciples or
even the callous Kenny Welker. He also worried that by now, she might even be carrying a child
fathered by one of them.
After tossing and turning for a time as he fretted, Strock finally managed to fall asleep. He
woke once, disoriented before realizing that this was no nightmare. That the Mind Plague was
real, that he was laying on a hard concrete shelf on a thin, comfortless plastic mattress in a
cramped, dark claustrophobic cell in a cellblock in what used to be a Supermax prison formerly
housing arch-criminals most of whom had become mindless automatons serving a raving, radical
Islamic terrorist intent on taking control over what was left of humanity. After stressing a while
longer, he again managed to sleep.
His morning began with the blare of the same dull horn out of the ceiling speakers that had
announced it was bedtime the night before. Moments later, someone pulled open his door a crack
and slid in a tray with a plate containing watery powdered eggs, a fruit cup, and a water bottle.
Strock got up and took the tray over to his desk and began eating, again using his fingers to
scoop up the eggs and diced fruit into his mouth. After gulping down the water, he placed the
tray out into the corridor.
Looking up into the narrow window slit at the top of the far wall, the grayish hue of light told
him that it must be just after sunrise. He soon heard water slapping against the floors from the
cells on both sides of him. The inmate blanks were showering, and he decided that’s what he
should do as well.
After showering and putting on his gray, prison jumpsuit, Strock snuck out into the corridor.
He peeked in on the inmate blank in the cell to his left and saw that he was engaged in his post-
breakfast, post-shower, morning Salah. Strock quickly returned to his cell to fake his own. Not
long into it, as he lay prostrate on the floor, someone banged at his door. It opened, and Kenny
Welker stepped in. Scowling, Welker said something in broken Arabic, some command, with an
“Allah Akbar,” tossed in. When Strock frowned, Welker jerked his head and thumb toward the
corridor and grunted, “Let’s get the fuck moving. Comprendo that?”
Strock made no response, and after Welker exited the cell, he slipped into his boots and
moved toward the door. He decided to leave the knife under the mattress that morning. Keeping
it hidden somewhere in his jumpsuit the entire day seemed problematic, and anyway, there
seemed little need for it where they were going—likely to St. Bart’s to clean up the mess of
monk bodies decaying in the morning heat.
Strock walked out into the corridor where the inmate blanks from yesterday’s sortie were
milling about. Welker barked something in Arabic, then blew his silver whistle and the six
blanks, with Strock following quickly behind, started marching single-file down the corridor,
going back the same way they had come from the warehouse the afternoon before. Eventually,
they exited the warehouse onto the loading dock where a box truck was waiting. In front of the
truck were six idling Harleys, with Osama Omar and five inmate blanks atop them, waiting to
escort the sortie.
Welker turned to the inmate blanks behind him and pointed out four, saying, “You, you, you
and you,” starting from the back of the line that included Strock. “Up into the cab with me. The
rest of you in back.”
After the selected three inmate blanks had wordlessly hopped up into the rear compartment,
Welker rolled the back door down and clasped it shut. With a grunt, he then gestured for the
other three blanks, and Strock, to follow him to the cab. Strock waited for the three blanks to
squeeze into the rear jump-seat, before hopping up into the more comfortable passenger seat next
to Welker.
“Alright, my retarded brothers in Islam,” Welker said as he turned the key and brought the
truck to a growling start. “We’re off.”
He shifted into drive, and as the transmission screeched into gear, they lurched forward away
from the loading dock, following Osama Omar’s biker escort. From the prison all the way to the
entrance to the northbound lanes of Interstate 99, Welker hummed some country music tune.
After a time, he stopped and started talking to himself in his gruff, Alabama drawl.
“Crazy friggin world, ain’t it?” he laughed. He looked over at Strock. “Looks like I died and
went straight to Muslim hell, servant to a bunch of camel-jockeys. Well, could be worse. I could
be you. Or maybe that isn’t worse, not knowing what the fuck is going on.”
Strock remained poker-faced as if he couldn’t understand a word. He decided that Welker
likely held these solitary conversations every time he transported inmate blanks on a sortie. It
was his time to unload his frustrations kept bottled up by necessity while inside the prison as a
white supremacist serving a Muslim sheik. He had also learned that much like the monk blanks
back at St. Bart’s, the inmate blanks never spoke a word. They’d been programmed to obey
orders, not to think or say anything. And thus, they had become the most perfect of slaves.
“I would run,” Welker went on with a shrug, “but where to? Too many freaks out here, in this
crazy wilderness. Or maybe there’s a militia of white warriors somewhere I’d find.” He laughed.
“With my luck, I’d get caught by some more of these A-rabs, or liberal commies or niggers or a
herd of spics or faggots. We let far too many mongrels cross over our borders over the years, you
know that.”
After a time, he turned to Strock and asked, “What the fuck was your deal anyway?” He
reached over and poked him. “Huh, white boy? You a child killer, or one of us, a full-blooded
white American? I don’t recognize you.” He looked at Strock for a time, holding his frown, and
Strock suddenly regretted not taking his knife. Finally, Welker shook his head and laughed.
“Frig, you don’t understand a friggin word I’m saying, do you? Dumb, useless, retarded pieces
of shit, the lot of you, you ask me.”
Welker shifted forward and drove on for a while in silence with a malevolent stare. Finally, he
blurted, “But you know, I ain’t got it so friggin bad. I mean, I get three squares, all the women I
want. Not the pretty ones. Friggin Sheik gets them, leaving me and Fick and Kellogg the skanks.
But that’s better than before, getting head from you retards on the sly.
“So hell, I’ll stick with it and maybe that crazy bastard will really put his money where his
mouth is and start a war and win it, then rule the world, with me right by his side, or near to it.
On the ground floor, sort of speak.” He laughed to himself then fell silent in thought for a time.
“Not that I don’t think about capping his ass,” Welker went on. “I mean, pulling a coup d’état.
Me and Fick have talked about it. Kill those sand-niggers, then set up our own Caliphate. A
white one.” He laughed to himself. “If only they’d trust us with one of their friggin rifles. Ever
get my hands on one, I’ll cap that Omar’s ass, and then the Sheik and his camel-jockey apostles.”
He hissed a breath out of his mouth and nodded forward. “Look at that sand-nigger riding up
there like his shit don’t stink. Killing those friggin faggot priests, like that was something to brag
about. Big deal. Big friggin deal.”
Then he stopped talking and brooded over things with his arms over the top of the steering
wheel as they sped along the interstate at seventy-five miles an hour. Sometime later, they finally
exited the interstate, drove through Hollidaysburg and eventually made their way to Monastery
Way and turned onto the narrow gravel driveway to the monastery. Strock looked wide-eyed as
they stopped in the clearing in front of the dining hall where he’d been standing only twenty-four
hours ago, though it seemed like an eternity had come and gone.
The monastery grounds were strewn with the swollen bodies of dead cassock-clad monks
buzzing with flies. Strock recognized some of them from his month at St. Bart’s. He wondered
what had become of Brother Paul during the battle with Osama Omar’s gang. Most likely he was
among the dead about to be piled up in a funeral pyre and cremated, forgotten forever and
spelling, perhaps, the end of Christianity. Brother Paul’s Kingdom of God on earth, as
envisioned two thousand years ago by Jesus Christ himself, now would never come to pass.
After the truck came to a screeching halt and Welker turned off the engine, he ordered Strock,
and the inmate blanks out of the cab, then went around to the back and let out the blanks who’d
taken the ride back there. With Strock and the six inmate blanks milling about at the back of the
truck, Welker blew his whistle, then shouted, “Okay, you friggin retards, toss these infidel
bastards in a pile so I can start this barbecue!”
 Thirty-Eight
Beheadings

Three hours later, Strock was glad to be chosen by Welker to ride in the cab again for the ride
back the Supermax. But that worried him as well. Did he suspect something? He again waited to
take the more comfortable front passenger seat rather than be crammed in the jump seat with the
three smelly inmate blanks also selected for the ride in the cab.
As they drove down the entrance road back toward Monastery Way, Welker looked over at
Strock and said, “You gotta name pal?” Strock stared forward, again maintaining a poker face.
“Hey, pal! Look at me!”
Strock didn’t know whether any of the inmate blanks had names, and he hadn’t heard any of
them talk over the few hours he’d been around them, not even to answer the simplest question. It
had been like that with the monk blanks back at St. Bart’s. They never talked to each other or to
Brother Paul or him, just blurted out the prayers and responses that Brother Paul had
programmed them to chant. Ellie hadn’t spoken much on her own either. It seemed that blanks
had reverted to a pre-cognitive stage of development before some mutation in the evolutionary
process had caused human beings to think and speak on their own.
“I said, look at me, pal!”
Strock turned to Welker. He decided it best to keep his mouth shut and remain expressionless,
as if he didn’t understand Welker’s inquiry, or hadn’t been programmed to respond to it, and
presume that the question was purely rhetorical.
“I mean, I know you’re just another worker bee and got no identity,” Welker went on, as
Strock gazed at him, trying desperately not to show a hint of emotion or independent thought.
“That’s the way the Sheik wants it, right? An army of worker bees who’ll die for him and Allah,
no questions asked. No complaints.”
Welker looked forward again, allowing Strock to turn forward as well. He fell silent and
seemed to be pondering something. Again, Strock wondered whether it had been a mistake not to
have taken the knife.
“You know, I know most of the names, like Jurgens back there for instance,” Welker went on.
“He got life for sending homemade bombs and anthrax powder to government buildings.”
Welker laughed. “Anarchist creep. He’d been a professor or something before slinking off into
the woods and living like a hermit writing some goddamned manifesto before he was caught
mailing his last bomb.” He laughed again, then said, “Crazy fuck.” He shrugged, glanced over at
Strock and said, “But you, my friend, I still can’t place you.” After a sigh, he added, “You
retards all look alike anyway. Like monkey-faced niggers.” He let out another sigh and asked,
“So what’s the deal? You gotta name, pal?”
Strock stared forward, said nothing.
“Thought not.”
Welker didn’t talk much after that. Once he got going, he smelled the arm of his jumpsuit and
said, “I can’t get this friggin stink off me. Burnt monk flesh.” After that, he set his eyes into a
malevolent scowl and brooded as the box truck rumbled along behind Omar’s patrol of Harleys.
Then, as they neared the Cumberland exit off Interstate 99, he blurted, “Well, at least tonight, we
get a show. Beheadings.” Strock stared forward. “Abdul told me. Yeah. Beheadings. Some
hapless dips captured a few weeks back from a slave gang just down south of here. They can’t
teach any of them a damned thing. Friggin lost causes. Abdul says we can no longer waste food
on them. Their beheadings will teach a lesson to you other dips. That you need to learn the Quran
and obey the Sheik.” He sighed. “Never saw a beheading, except on TV. Looking forward to it,
wanna know the truth.”
Again, Welker fell silent. He belched and emitted a curse under his breath every now and
then, but otherwise, he didn’t say another word to Strock.
Welker’s silence gave Strock time to think. He had dismissed trying to obtain the key or code
that would open the cells where Ellie might be held as impossible to pull off. After all, he had no
idea where to look. That left him with trying a surprise attack. That night, when he trekked down
to the woman’s cells in Cellblock Charlie, he’d take his knife. Then, should Welker and his
comrades come to take some of the captured women to the Sheik and the other mullahs like they
had the night before, he’d pounce and stab Welker and the other two escorts to death. That
seemed do-able as last night it appeared that Welker and the other two escorts had been unarmed.
Strock looked out of the corner of his eye at Welker, still glaring forward seeming mad at the
world. The thought of stabbing him to death didn’t bother Strock. Welker seemed a bad man,
beyond salvation.

They made it back to the Supermax by mid-afternoon. No one greeted them on the loading
dock this time, and they made quick work of unloading supplies taken from St. Bart’s onto the
forklift. Within an hour after returning, Strock and the inmate blanks were marching back to their
cells while Welker was taking the box truck back to the side parking lot.
The routine of the rest of the day matched the day before. After returning to his cell, Strock
faked his late afternoon Salah, then waited for his dinner tray to arrive. This time, it was a rice
and dark meat dish, with another fruit cup and water bottle. Sometime afterwards, Strock found
himself marching with the inmate blanks to the recreation pit to observe, from what Welker had
told him, the beheadings.
After al-Shahab preached something in his staccato Arabic rant, incomprehensible to Strock, a
line of nine hapless, hooded blanks—or “dips,” as Welker had called them—were marched out to
the front ledge of the recreation pit. A long rope tied around each of their waists bound them
together and was used by one of the Sheik’s disciples to tug them forward. After stopping them,
the disciple went around behind the blanks and forced each of them to their knees.
A second mullah carrying a long, silver rapier strode forward and stood behind the rope-
bound blanks. He turned to the Sheik, bowed and said something in Arabic. The Sheik barked a
response, and in the next moment, he turned and looked down at the congregation of blanks
standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the recreation pit. Sheik al-Shahab waved at the hapless blanks
before him and shouted something in Arabic. Then, he raised his arm, and after holding it up for
a time, slashed it downward, the timeless signal for execution. In the next instant, the mullah
with the rapier raised it and without hesitation, brought it down across the neck of the blank
before him. Strock tensed and held back a cry as the head of the blank fell forward in a bloody
tangle of sinew, muscle tissue, and blood into the recreation pit almost striking the inmate blanks
standing and staring upwards along the front wall.
Strock looked up and found Welker standing at the far side of the ledge with a sickly smile as
he ogled the beheadings, one after the other.
 Thirty-Nine
The Ambush

After the beheadings, the inmate blanks were dismissed to their cells. Ambling out of the
recreation pit, they appeared unmoved by the massacre of the hapless blanks. Minutes later, back
in his cell, Strock faked the evening Salah, and then sat at the desk and pretended to read his
copy of the Quran.
After the horn blared from the ceiling at the appointed hour announcing that it was bedtime,
Strock took off his jumpsuit and socks and slipped under the cover of his hard bed in his skivvies
and pretended to fall asleep. He laid there for an hour, guessing that he’d about slept that long the
previous night before leaving his cell and stumbling upon the gathering of the zawjas by Welker
and the two others for delivery to al-Shahab and his men.
After sitting up, Strock reached under the mattress for the knife. He held it up and stared at it,
turning it over in his hands, running his right thumb over its long, sharp edge, thinking how best
to thrust it into another man’s body to inflict a quick death. He’d have to use it to kill three men
in rapid succession. He understood the difficulty of that task, but at least he would have the
element of surprise on his side. Though the thought of killing another human being troubled him,
he accepted that there was no other choice. He was no rookie. He’d killed before, and like the
man he’d killed, these three were also deserving of death. Most of all, he’d be doing it for the
grand purpose of saving Ellie.
Finally, Strock pushed himself off the bed and put on his jumpsuit, socks, and boots, and
walked out into the silent, deserted corridor with the knife in his right hand. Like the night
before, he slinked around the walls of Cellblocks Alpha and Bravo and stopped near the end of
the mini-corridor that led from Bravo into Cellblock Charlie. He backed against the wall and
rolled down to sit against it hoping that the escort team would soon arrive to fetch another batch
of women. The time dragged and Strock soon worried that perhaps the round-up of zawjas
wasn’t a nightly occurrence. Finally, after almost half an hour, he heard the echo of a voice, the
southern drawl of Kenny Welker making some innocuous or silly comment to the Sheik’s
disciple who didn’t offer a response. With them was a blank who didn’t care what anybody said.
As they rounded the corner from the connecting hallway from Cellblock Delta into Cellblock
Charlie, Strock stood up against the wall and edged to the end of the mini-corridor at the other
end of Cellblock Bravo. Listening closely, he heard Welker whine, “I better get a taste of one of
these whores tonight. And I mean one of the better-looking ones.”
With some annoyance, the same disciple of Sheik al-Shahab from the night before corrected
him, “Not whores, Brother. I told you—zawjas.”
“Yeah, yeah, Abdul, zawjas,” muttered Welker.
“And you must not be so crass, brother. Allah forbids it.”
“Yeah, Allah,” Welker said as he walked on. “Allah Akbar.”
Strock peeked around the corner and watched as Welker used a keycard to unlock a cell door.
Abdul went in the open cell and led a woman out into the corridor. He, Abdul and the blank then
opened several other cells. When they had finished, there were six black-veiled women milling
about in the corridor. Strock was unable to detect whether Ellie was among them.
 It’s now or never, Strock decided as he backed against the wall. His lone option was to run
out and stab, stab, stab, and keep stabbing until Welker and the other two escorts were bloodied
and dead on the floor. If Ellie wasn’t among the women out there, he’d take the keycard from the
body of Welker and use it to open the remaining cell doors. Eventually, he’d have to find her.
Strock closed his eyes before peeking out again and saw that Welker, the disciple, and the
inmate blank were standing beside the women. “Let’s go,” Welker said as he pushed against the
backs of a couple of them to get the group moving as if he was directing a herd of cattle.
After a deep breath, Strock pushed himself off the wall and charged from his hiding place in
the shadows. He ran to the back of the veiled women and slashed into the chest of the inmate
blank. The knife entered his torso with a whoosh and blood was spurting out as Strock removed
it with surprising ease. Welker and the disciple looked over, surprised to see the inmate blank
groan and grab his chest as he fell to his knees. The women provided a shadowy cover giving
Strock time to lurch forward and thrust his knife into Abdul’s chest.
By the time Strock had pulled out the knife, and Abdul had fallen in a lump to the floor,
Welker had run at Strock and grabbed him around the waist from behind. Welker lifted him up
and pulled him backward, trying to body-slam him to the floor. As he grunted and snarled,
Strock widened his stance and held firm against Welker’s tug. During the struggle he managed to
whip around, out of Welker’s grasp. He then slipped his arm under Welker’s left shoulder,
pulled the knife around and pressed the blade against Welker’s throat.
In the instant after Strock had turned things around and gained the upper hand, the thought
suddenly occurred to him that Welker might be more useful alive than dead.
 Forty
Trust Me

“Relax or you’re dead,” Strock hissed as Welker wiggled under his grasp. He drew the knife
close along the soft tissue of Welker’s neck and put just enough pressure on the sharp blade to
draw a line of blood.
“Alright, man,” Welker whispered. He seemed to melt. In a defeated tone, he added, “Alright.
You got me.”
“Tell them to remove their veils.”
The women had stopped and were milling about gawking as Strock held a knife to Welker’s
throat.
Strock felt Welker swallow. “What? Why?” he asked.
Strock brought pressure to the knife along Welker’s neck and hissed, “Just do it.”
Welker panted something in Arabic or a crude version of it. Then, showing what he wanted
them to do by slowly raising his hands from under Strock’s grasp, and removing an imaginary
hood, he added, “Your hijab. Off.”
The women looked at each other, then back at the odd scene before them—Strock with a knife
to Welker’s throat. Still seeming confused or unable to comprehend the command, or what was
going on, Strock firmly told them, “Take…off…your…veils.”
The women stumbled about, looking at themselves, trying to figure out what to do. A tall, thin
woman nearest to where Strock held Welker stepped forward, lowered her head and removed her
hijab. Finally, the rest of them removed theirs and stood gawking at Strock and Welker. All of
them, it appeared, were blanks. None of them was Ellie.
“Shit,” Strock hissed.
“You looking for someone?” Welker asked.
“My wife,” Strock replied.
“She’s here? In the prison?”
“Yeah. The creep who leads the motorcycle detail, Osama Omar—he and his crew captured
her and a guy a couple months back.” Strock marveled at how long it had been. Over eight
weeks, at least. It seemed a century ago.
“Oh…yeah, man, I know them,” Welker said. He remained relaxed under Strock’s grasp, with
the knife still held firmly against his neck. “I remember them coming in.”
“Where is she? The woman.”
“I can get her for you, man,” Welker said. “She’s in a cell right down the hall. And I can help
get the guy, too—maybe. He’s in Cellblock Echo.”
“First, take me to her,” Strock said as he took a step backward, pulling Welker with him,
careful not to slice into the man’s neck.
“Look, man, you have to let go of me.”
“So you can run off? No way.”
“No, man, listen,” Welker said. “I’ve been waiting for something like this. A chance to
escape, get the frig out of this nuthouse. Re-join the white Christian race. I can show you where
she is, and the guy, and get us out of here. Get to New America, wherever, and join the fight
against these sand monkeys.”
“How do you know about New America?”
“They’ve been torturing the guy. He’s told them some stuff. Something about New America.
They’re trying to find out where it is, how strong it is. That kind of stuff. I think the Sheik wants
to attack it. Part of his crazy plan to establish a Muslim caliphate in America or something. He
thinks of himself as the friggin Mohammed reincarnated. Allah saved him and brought down the
pestilence on the rest of the infidels, so now he can rule the world in the name of Islam. Crap like
that.” He sighed. “I’m never quite sure what that camel jockey is talking about. Arabic is not my
strong suit, not that I want it ever to be.”
Strock needed Flynn to get them to New America. Flynn had told him it had been established
in an underground shelter called Mount Weather, but he had no idea where it was or how to get
there. But the question of the moment was whether he could trust Welker. One plan was for him
to hop-scotch Welker down the corridor to Ellie’s cell with the knife still at his throat, then once
he opened it, to slit it. Or simply slit it now and use the keycard that Welker must be carrying to
open her cell door. But then, he’d have a hard time finding Flynn. A third option was to let him
live but keep a close eye on him, and use his knowledge to get to Flynn, rescue him, and then
escape from the prison. On the way to Mount Weather, they could decide Welker’s fate.
“Look, man,” Welker pleaded, having sorted out Strock’s options as well, “you can trust me.
You have to trust me. It’s your only way out. I’m an American. I don’t want to fight for these
sand niggers. I want to escape this friggin nightmare just as much as you do.”
Strock made a snap decision, and in one motion, pulled the knife away from Welker’s throat.
He stuck the point of it against the small of Welker’s back. “Alright,” Strock said, “Tell the
women to return to their cells.”
Welker nudged forward slightly away from the point of the knife.
“You make another move, you’re dead,” Strock admonished.
After feeling where the knife blade had cut into his neck, Welker said, “Look, man, there’s no
need for this. Like I said, you can trust me.”
“No, I can’t,” Strock said. “Just do as you’re told. And you can start by telling the women to
return to their cells.”
With a sigh, Welker looked at the six women still standing together with bewildered
expressions and told them in a mixture of Arabic and English and a wave of his right arm to
return to their cells. After a few moments of confused stares, they finally began shuffling down
the corridor.
After each of them had entered their cells, Strock said, “Now, take me to her.”
At first, Welker did a double-take as he finally got a clear look at Strock. “It’s you,” he said.
“The dip in the cab.” He nodded and smiled. “I knew you weren’t no dip.”
“Look, never mind that. Just take me to her.”
“Yeah, sure,” Welker nodded to the other end of the corridor and said, “This way. Down
here.”
Strock stayed behind Welker keeping the knife up against the small of his back as they headed
to the far end of the corridor. Welker stopped at a door, plucked a keycard out of his jumpsuit
pocket and stuck it into a slot. When the lock unclasped, Welker pulled on the handle and opened
the door, then walked into the cell with Strock right behind him. As they stepped forward,
Welker glanced back at Strock and with a wink said, “See, I told you. You can trust me. There
she is.”
 Forty-One
Knocked Up

As they entered the cell, the veiled woman in a black burqa sat up. She panted, then kicked
her heels against the mattress, pushing herself to the far corner of the bed.
“It’s alright, Ellie,” Strock whispered as he moved Welker with him closer to the bed. “It’s
me. Frank. Take off your veil so I can see you.” When she still hesitated, he said in a soft, kindly
voice, “Go ahead, Ellie. It’s okay. Please.”
Finally, she reached up and removed the veil.
“Ellie,” Strock said and smiled.
She looked at him for a time. Finally, recognition filled her eyes, and she whispered, “Frank?”
Strock looked at Welker, then lowered the knife and sat on the bed. He reached out and patted
Ellie’s arm. “You’re alright now,” he said. “I’m gonna take you out of here.”
“Take me?”
He glanced over and saw that Welker had not moved. Strock scooted over to Ellie and
brought her to him. She resisted a little before falling into his arms.
“Pretty lady,” Welker commented from across the room. “See why you came back for her.
But we gotta get moving, pal. They’ll be wondering what’s the delay, why we haven’t returned
with the ladies.”
Strock looked at Ellie and said, “Come with me, Ellie. Okay?”
After a moment, she nodded. “Yes, Frank.”
He smiled and helped her off the bed. She looked at Strock, blinked, and said, “Now go get
Jack?”
“Who’s Jack?” Welker asked.
Strock turned to him and said, “The guy they brought in with her. Jack Flynn. You said he’s
in Cellblock Echo.”
“Yeah,” Welker said. “Let’s go get him before all hell breaks loose.”

Strock held Ellie’s hand as they hurried out of the cell into the dark corridor and stepped over
the slashed, bloodied bodies of Abdul and the inmate blank sprawled across the cement floor.
“Wait,” Welker said with some urgency in his voice. “We need to get rid of them. Hide them
in one of the cells.”
Strock nodded and went over with Welker to the bodies while Ellie stood back, frowning.
Welker slid his arms under Abdul’s corpse, while Strock did the same to the inmate blank, then
followed Welker as he dragged Abdul’s body into a cell. As he let it fall ingloriously to the floor,
the veiled woman on the bed sat up and whined.
“Shut up,” Welker snapped at her. With Strock dragging in the other corpse and placing it
down next to Abdul’s, Welker hissed a command in Arabic and the woman quickly laid back and
stared up at the ceiling.
Ellie was trembling like a scared child out in the dark, silent corridor when Welker and Strock
returned. Strock went up and put his arms around Ellie’s midsection, then rubbed her belly,
feeling a slight bump. Scowling, he turned to Welker and said, “I, I think she’d pregnant.”
Welker shrugged. “Most of them end up that way. That’s what they’re here for. To make
baby sand-niggers.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. Ellie was pregnant, carrying another man’s child. Strock
stood there with a defeated look, his arms down by his sides, the knife dangling limp from his
right hand. Ellie stood in the corridor ahead of them with a blank look, as if trying to figure out
what was wrong. It had been her characteristic look the last year.
After a time, Strock turned to Welker and asked, “Whose? Not yours, I hope.”
Welker frowned and gave Strock an amused expression. “Look, pal, they’d never let me touch
a woman good looking as her,” he said. “Guys like me, we get the skanks.”
“Whose then?”
Shrugging, Welker said, “Could be any of them—his disciples—or even the Sheik himself.
I… I think I brought her to him once, twice maybe.” He sighed and went on, “Look, man, we got
no time for this. She’s knocked up, nothing you can do about it, not now anyway. Or you can just
leave her, find somebody else to love on the outside, back in New America.”
Strock stood and felt the small, but discernible protrusion of her belly under the burqa. She
was going to have a child, the son or daughter he had been unable to give her. Bitter thoughts
swirled around his head. It seemed suddenly as if nothing mattered anymore. But leave her? He
sighed.
“But we do have to get moving,” Welker said. “You understanding me?”
Strock turned to Welker and nodded absently. “Okay, let’s go,” he said.
He took a step as if to walk around Ellie and leave her there, but suddenly turned and grabbed
her by the left arm. As he tugged her with him, Strock said, “Come on.”
 Forty-Two
Finding Flynn

Strock kept tugging Ellie along by her elbow as he strode a few feet behind Welker on their
way to Cellblock Echo to Jack Flynn’s cell. The route took them back the way Strock had come
rather than forward into Cellblock Delta in order to avoid running straight into al-Shahab and his
men who, by now, might be wondering about the lengthy delay in receiving that night’s batch of
zawjas.
Finally, they reached Cellblock Echo. Welker strode to a cell at the far end of the cellblock,
inserted his key card into the slot on the wall next to the door, and pulled open the door. As
Strock dragged Ellie with him into the cell, he saw a lump on the bed and soon realized that the
lump was Jack Flynn. Looking closer, Strock saw that he had been severely beaten. His face was
bruised and swollen and his eyes mere slits staring up at nothing.
After a moment, Flynn managed to raise his head a few inches and turn to them. He squinted,
then nodded as he suddenly recognized Strock and next to him, Ellie.
Seeing her, he whispered, “Ellie.”
Her eyes widened as she let out a small giggle and called, “Jack!” She stepped to the bed, bent
down and hugged him.
Frowning at Strock, Welker asked, “She sweet on him?” Strock shrugged, and as Ellie
continued holding Flynn, Welker added, “We ain’t got time for this,” and Strock reached down
and pulled her away.
Looking down at Flynn, Welker asked, “Can you walk, hombre?”
Flynn glared up at Welker and hissed, “You. Stay away from me, bastard.”
Strock leaned in, pushed Welker aside, and said, “Never mind him. He’s helping me get Ellie
and you out of here. But there’s no time to explain. We have to get moving.” He examined
Flynn’s battered body. “Can—can you walk?”
After a swallow, Flynn laid back on the mattress, shook his head and moaned, “No. I don’t
think so. The leg you fixed never healed and I, I think they broke my other one.”
Strock looked back at Welker and asked, “Can we carry him out of here?”
“Carry him?” Welker frowned and muttered, “I… I don’t…”
“No,” snapped Flynn. “I’m not going.” When Strock looked back down at him, Flynn said,
“Go. Save yourselves. I’m a lost cause. You need to get to Mount Weather, tell them what’s
happening here, that the Sheik is poised to attack.”
“How do we get there?” Strock asked.
Flynn glanced at Welker and said, “I’ll tell you, not him.”
“Frig, man,” Welker said. “He told you, I’m on your side.”
Flynn shook his head and nodding to Strock, said, “Only him.”
Welker stepped away muttering, “We got no friggin time for this.”
Flynn gestured for Strock to come close and whispered, “It’s only a couple hours by car, if the
roads are passable. Walking would take you at least three, four days, maybe more. But you’d
have more stealth that way. Wouldn’t want you to lead Osama Omar and his Harley crew there.”
“So, we should walk?”
 Flynn shrugged and said, “Whatever works. Anyway, there’s several state roads you can take
to get there. You got a good memory?”
Strock nodded and said, “Yeah, pretty good, I guess.” Then, he laughed considering how
ironic having any memory was in these times. After a moment, Flynn smiled briefly, perhaps
also seeing the humor in it. Then, he launched into the directions from the Supermax to Mount
Weather.
“As you approach the Center up Blue Ridge Mountain Road, be discreet and stay friendly,”
Flynn advised. “There’ll be guards who’ll come out and pick you up, I guarantee you that.” He
gasped, catching his breath, then his eyes got tight from all the talking, and he let out a groan.
Finally, he opened his eyes again and looked up at Strock. “You, you got all that?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Strock said. He closed his eyes and repeated the routes Flynn had given
him: “51, 9, 29, 127, 522, 7, then 601 to Blue Ridge Mountain Road. Right?”
“Yeah, right,” Flynn said, then added, “You should jot them down first chance you get. Also,
grab a map in a store in Cumberland.”
Agreeing, Strock gave a nod.
Welker suddenly was at the back of Strock’s neck, panting. “Look, we really do need to get
going.”
“But, Jesus, we can’t just leave him here,” Strock said to Welker. “Like this.”
“You have no other choice,” Flynn rasped. As Strock turned to him, he said, “You have a
weapon?”
Strock held up the knife. “Only this.”
Flynn nodded and after a sigh, said, “You have to use it—on me. Stop me from telling them
anything else—the route I just gave you to Mount Weather. The Sheik learns where New
America is, he’ll take his men and attack it. I’m not so sure New America has the firepower to
resist him, to win that war. Not yet, anyway.”
“But, we can take you with us,” Strock pleaded.
“No, you can’t,” Flynn said. “And, he’s right. You have to get moving.”
Strock looked at the knife. “I… I can’t. No way I can do that.” He gave Welker an anguished
glance.
“I don’t want him doing it,” Flynn snapped. When Strock turned to Flynn again, he added,
“Only you.”
Strock sagged within himself and looked away. He certainly didn’t want to do this. He
glanced at Ellie. She looked lost, oblivious to what Flynn was asking him to do.
“We have to do something,” Welker hissed. “Now or never. Either off him or carry him or
leave him to their torture.” He looked with a frantic expression over his shoulder to the cell door.
“Maybe this’ll make it easier for you,” Flynn wheezed. He was still stiffly lying there, unable
to move, rigid as a board, looking helplessly up at Strock. He was a bruised and broken man.
When Strock looked down at him, he huffed, “That morning you went off to that town, what was
it - Salamanca - before that bastard Omar and his biker buddies found the cabin somehow, Ellie
and I…. we made love. Right there on the recliner, your own recliner.” He sighed. “It just
happened.”
“Look, fellas, let’s get going,” Welker chimed in. “I think I hear some commotion back in
Cellblock Delta.”
Strock ignored him. He looked over at Ellie. She was staring down at Flynn with sad, loving
eyes. Flynn had somehow awakened in her the remembrance of loving someone that she’d
forgotten about, something Strock had been unable to do despite their relationship as husband
and wife before the Mind Plague. With a smirk, Strock looked down at Flynn and said, “She’s
pregnant, you know.”
“What?”
“Pregnant. She’s getting a little belly. Could be, could be ....yours. I always wore a rubber to
prevent it.” He laughed. “Hell, more likely, it’s one of theirs. Sheik al-Shahab’s, for all we
know.”
Flynn shook his head and gave a weak smile. “No,” he said. “It’s mine.”
“We got no time for this debate,” Welker hissed. “I’m telling you, we gotta move. They’re be
searching all over the prison any minute now.”
“Just do it,” Flynn hissed. “Put me out of my misery. And, out of your life.”
Strock sighed and reached a decision. He knew Flynn was right. He was beyond help.
Carrying him with them simply wasn’t an option. He quickly dismissed the ridiculous, ugly
thought that by killing Flynn, he’d be defending his masculine honor. Turning to Welker, he
said, “Take her out of here.”
After a nod, Welker went over and put his arm around Ellie’s shoulders. As he moved her
toward the door, she resisted, held her feet to the ground and strained to look back at Flynn.
“Go, Ellie,” ordered Strock.
After a moment, Flynn glared at her and ordered as loud as he could, “Ellie, do like he said.
Go!”
After Welker had taken her out of the cell, he whispered to himself, “Bye, Ellie.”
 Forty-Three
Escape

When Strock exited Flynn’s cell into the dark, silent corridor with a distressed expression,
Welker asked, “You alright?”
He wasn’t, of course. He had just stabbed a man to death.
Just moments ago, back inside the cell, Flynn had closed his eyes and wheezed, “Do it
quickly. Don’t make me wait.” An instant after that, Strock had raised the knife over Flynn’s
battered torso, and in one quick thrust, brought it down squarely into the center of his chest, into
what he hoped was the man’s heart. Flynn had gasped, trembled harshly in the grip of a death
seizure.
Strock quickly pulled out the knife, raised it, and gave another downward thrust. Shortly after
that, Flynn stopped moving. Certain that Flynn was dead, Strock cleaned the knife blade with the
sheet covering him, then looked down at Flynn and whispered, “Forgive me.”
“Yeah,” Strock told Welker. “I’m fine.”
“Alright, then,” Welker said to him, “Let’s go.”
As Welker strode off down the corridor, Strock grabbed hold of Ellie’s left arm, and they
hurried after him.
After a few steps, Ellie pulled back. Looking over her right shoulder, and whined, “Jack.”
Strock tugged at her and answered, “No.”
She stopped, turned to him with a frown and more forcibly stated, “Jack!”
“Never mind Jack,” Strock said and pulled her sideways to get her moving again.
She stumbled along with him, and croaked, “Jack,” as if realizing she’d never see him again.
They followed Welker through Cellblock Echo, and after scurrying into a connecting corridor,
Strock was relieved to find that they’d come back around the hexagon to Cellblock Alpha. From
a distance, voices echoed from one of the other cell blocks. Welker stopped and held up a hand
to stop them as well. For a time, they stood there and listened.
Finally, Welker looked at Strock and whispered, “We have to hurry,” and Strock nodded in
agreement. The voices could only mean that a search party had finally been sent out to determine
the delay in delivering the zawjas. It would still take some time for them to figure things out.
Hopefully, Welker and Strock and Ellie would have escaped into the dark streets outside the
prison by then.
Half a minute later, they were trotting through the deserted warehouse. At the doorway
leading out onto the loading dock, Welker held up his hand to stop Strock and Ellie. Hunkering
down against the door frame, Welker scanned the twelve-foot tall fences strung with barbed wire
around the perimeter of the Supermax.
Nodding toward the fence straight ahead of them, he said to Strock, “There’s dips out there,
standing guard.” Strock turned and immediately spotted two of them dutifully standing roughly
thirty-yards apart along the fence perimeter holding AK-47s. Each of them was staring outside
the fence.
Welker added, “Disciples man the towers, to monitor things.” He nodded to a metal tower
about fifty feet high. A row of them were spaced about sixty yards apart with a shack on top
from which al-Shahab’s disciples scanned the grounds below.
“So, what’s the plan?” Strock asked.
After a time, Welker said, “The dips and disciples know me. Neither of them will suspect
what I’m doing. And anyway, the dips’re programmed to watch for someone trying to get into
the prison, not an inmate getting out.” Finally, he nodded and said, “Let me approach the dip by
the front gate.” He looked toward the gate at the end of the road leading to the loading dock.
“Over there. He won’t know what hit him.” Welker looked at Strock, then down to the knife in
his hand and said, “I’ll need that to immobilize him—permanently. Then, I snatch his rifle, blow
off the lock, and we get away into the night, hopefully with enough time to lose them in the
woods around the prison. Then, we run, and keep running until we can’t run no more.”
Strock frowned. Time was wasting, and there seemed to be no other options.
“Alright,” Strock said, now fully committed to Welker. With a sigh, he handed over the knife,
half-expecting Welker to thrust it into him. But Welker didn’t. Instead, he broke into a trot
heading toward the fence near the main gate.
With Ellie next to him in the shadows, Strock watched from the warehouse doorway as
Welker approached the “dip” near the fence. As the blank turned to him, Welker pulled out the
knife and thrust it into the hapless blank’s midsection without a word.
The blank groaned, and as he started falling forward, Welker snatched the rifle from him.
After looking up at the guard tower, Welker turned and waved at Strock to join him. Strock
grabbed Ellie and pulled her with him as he ran out onto the loading dock to the spot by the front
gate where Welker was waiting.
Back inside the prison, the Sheik’s search party had just discovered that something was amiss.
The zawjas were still in their cells, but the escort party was nowhere to be found. Shortly after
that, the bodies of Abdul and the inmate blank were discovered hidden in a hapless zawja’s cell
and Welker was gone. The Sheik was notified, and his best men were immediately dispatched to
find Welker and avenge this affront to the Prophet and Allah.
As Strock and Ellie caught up to Welker, he waved them back and pointed the AK-47 at the
lock of the front gate. He fired, and the lock splattered into metal shards. Welker stepped forward
and pushed the gate open. From the nearest tower, a voice shouted something. As the searchlight
from the tower shack cast a beam over a narrow patch of ground near them, Welker turned and
said, “Okay, man, let’s get out of this shithole.”
As they ran through the gate into darkness, they heard shouts behind them as a band of al-
Shahab’s disciples exited the warehouse onto the loading dock. They were on a holy mission to
find the infidels who had killed their comrades, their captive, Jack Flynn, and taken one of their
zawjas.
In the darkness just outside the prison walls, Strock, Ellie, and Kenny Welker escaped to
freedom.
 Part Four
Mount Weather
 Forty-Four
Freedom

They were panting hard, with Ellie adding an occasional whimper, as they ran down the dark,
silent streets of Cumberland with their footsteps clacking off the house and building walls. When
they were finally out of sight of the hulking prison, Strock turned to Welker, and out of breath,
whispered, “We need to stop a minute.”
Welker looked over and gave a nod. “Yeah,” he gasped. “Okay.”
After another couple of steps, Welker stopped and leaned forward with his hands on his
thighs, still clutching the AK-47 with his right hand and sucked in the chilly night air. Strock
joined him after another step while Ellie kept running another few feet before stopping as well
and glancing back at them with a frightened expression as she sucked in several deep breaths.
After a time, Strock stood and asked Welker, “You know where we’re going?”
“Yeah,” Welker replied, still bent over. He lifted the AK-47, pointed it forward and said,
“Down there. This road’ll take us into town, to Main Street. Route 51. That’s where we want to
go, right?”
With a shrug, Strock replied, “What about finding a house and laying low for the night?”
Welker shook his head as he straightened and stretched out his back. “No, man,” he said. “We
gotta keep moving, not get trapped in this town. Let’s get to Route 51, then slip into the woods.
They’re be searching for us, so the farther we get, the better.”
“Maybe we should snatch a vehicle.”
Welker shook his head again and argued, “No, we gotta stay off the roads, hug the woods
around them. They’ll be sending out bikes every which way, cars, too. On the road, we’d be too
much in the open. Sitting ducks.”
Strock sighed, not quite agreeing with that. Sheik al-Shahab didn’t seem to have the
manpower to search for them in every house and along every road leading out of Cumberland.
But after a time, he nodded. As Flynn had told him, it would likely take at least three or four
days by foot to get to Mount Weather—if only he could remember the routes. He closed his eyes
and tried: 51, 9, 29, 127, 522, 7, then 601 to Blue Ridge Mountain Road, or something like that.
At some point, they’d have to stop at a convenience store for a map.
“Okay, then,” Strock said. “Let’s get moving.”
They started off with an easy trot with their steps echoing off the pavement down dark side
streets in the southeast corner of Cumberland. They came to an intersection and turned right onto
a wide main road. A green street sign told Strock they were now running down Warren Avenue.
Finally, Welker slowed to a brisk walk.
Huffing, he told them, “We’re almost to Main. Route 51. There, we turn left and half a mile or
so after that, we’ll be outta town.”
Welker suddenly started jogging again, and Strock tugged at Ellie to get her moving and to
keep up. After a while, he saw the junction sign for Route 51. After making a sharp left turn from
the center of Warren Avenue onto the four-lane road that was Main Street/Route 51, Welker led
them to a sidewalk hugging the shadows of an old, sagging red-brick building.
Cumberland fizzled out about a half mile after that. The buildings were more widely spaced,
and as they ran, there were only the shadows of woods on both sides of the road as it narrowed to
two lanes. As they strode on into the deep night, Strock heard only silence behind them. They
seemed totally alone, a reminder of the end of the world. A thrill surged up his gut with the
thought that perhaps they had actually done the impossible and escaped Sheik al-Shahab and the
Supermax and were on their way to freedom and hope in New America. But then he turned to
Ellie, and as he briskly walked next to her, he was reminded that she was pregnant with another
man’s baby and his mood soured. Everything he had fought for over the past eight plus weeks
suddenly dwindled down to nothing.
Welker slowed their pace again, and they walked for a time along the gravel shoulder of
Route 51, a half mile or so out of Cumberland. Finally, he stopped and listened. After a minute,
he said, “Hear that? Goddamn Harleys.”
Strock squinted. He heard nothing at first, but then he too heard them, the low gurgle of
motorcycle engines off somewhere in the distance, close enough to pose a danger and engender
fear.
“We gotta get off the road, slip into the woods,” Welker said. “They’ll definitely be coming
this way any time now.”
The Harleys still seemed far off, clueless as to where they had gone or that they were on their
way to Mount Weather.
Welker started for the tree line a few yards across from the shoulder. It was pitch dark on a
thankfully moonless night. The air was quite chilly, almost uncomfortable, and the grass was
damp.
Best to keep moving, Strock thought. Next to him, Ellie shivered. At the edge of the woods,
Welker stopped, turned to Strock and said, “We’ll hug the trees, okay? Go into the woods only if
we have to. How long down 51? Do you know?”
Strock shrugged and said, “I have no idea. Just the route numbers. We’re looking for Route
9.”
Welker grimaced, nodded, and said, “Well, let’s go.”
“Stay right there,” said a gruff voice from somewhere in the shadow of the trees, mere steps
from them. Welker and Strock tensed, stopped, then turned to the direction of the voice. Welker
brought up the AK-47 that had been dangling in his hand and pointed it that way.
“I’d lower that, friend,” said the voice. “Now.”
 Forty-Five
The Patrol

“I said, lower it!” When Welker kept the AK-47 up, its stock flush against his right shoulder,
eye level, pointing into the darkness toward the woods, the gruff voice said, “You got to three,
asshole. One…”
Strock edged a step away from Welker and tugged Ellie with him.
“You other two,” another voice, this one, a low-pitched woman’s voice, grunted out from the
darkness, “put your hands up.” Strock glanced at Welker, then let go of Ellie’s hands and
whispered, “Put your hands up Ellie.” After she gave him a quizzical look, he jerked up her
arms, then lifted his own high over his head.
“I’m at two, asshole,” the voice said to Welker. “Three, I fire.”
“Do it,” whispered Strock. “We’re outflanked.”
“Fuck,” hissed Welker. With a sigh, he lowered the rifle.
“Now, put it on the ground,” said the man. “Slowly.”
With a grimace, Welker lowered to a crouch and placed the rifle at his feet. As he stood, the
man added, “Now, hands up, like them.”
Welker raised his arms.
“Take a step back,” the man ordered. “Each of you.” After they obeyed, the man continued,
“Okay, now, everyone, on the ground, on your stomachs.”
“C’mon,” whined Welker.
“Just do it asshole,” called the woman out of the darkness.
Shaking his head, Welker knelt down and braced himself as he stretched out on the ground
that was wet with dew. “Jesus Friggin Christ.” Without complaint, Strock helped Ellie down to
her knees, then onto her stomach, then laid down next to her, head up.
A tall man in tan camouflage fatigues stepped out from the shadows of the trees. As Strock
craned his neck upward to get a look at him, he saw a woman in the same uniform step out
followed by three men in similar uniforms. Each of them held M-16s and stood over the prone
bodies of Welker, Strock, and Ellie.
“Look, man,” Welker said, “we’re being chased by some bad actors from the prison. From the
Supermax. Back there.”
“Yeah, we know,” said the man, whom Strock concluded must be the leader of this gang or
whatever it was. He gestured to his comrades beside him and ordered, “Take the rifle, pat them
down, then get ‘em up on their feet. We can’t stay out here in the open.”
Three camouflaged soldiers did as ordered. The one patting down Strock found the knife,
grunted, and lifted it up for the man who’d been talking to them. These three must be blanks,
Strock thought.
“Okay, stand them up,” the man said.
Welker, Strock, and Ellie were lifted to their feet. When Ellie resisted, Strock said, “She’s a
blank. She can’t think. Let me, please let me do it, get her up.”
“Alright,” the man said, “Go ahead, get her up. But no bullshit.”
After she was on her feet, the man said, “Alright, let’s get going. Private Jessup, take the
lead.” After the soldier, Jessup, had walked around Welker, Strock, and Ellie, the leader told
them, “Follow him.”
“Who are you people?” Welker asked. “Where you taking us?”
“Shut up,” hissed the woman. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
After marching through the woods, they soon came to an encampment with three lean-tos
covered by camouflage tarpaulins. They walked into a small clearing in the center of camp,
where Welker, Strock, and Ellie were forced to their knees.
“Who the hell are you people?” Welker demanded as he leaned forward and had to use his
hands to stop himself from falling over onto his face.
“And I said,” the woman growled, “you need to shut up. You’re in no position to ask
questions, only give answers.”
“Yeah, like what answers?” Welker said as he pushed himself up, sat down on his haunches,
and glared up at the woman.
“Like who you are, for starters?” the man asked. He nodded to the woman as if to settle her
down.
“Name’s Welker, Kenny Atticus Welker, and I escaped from the prison. I ain’t got no serial
number.”
“You were a prisoner in there when the Event struck?” the man asked. When Welker didn’t
answer, the woman walked around and put a boot to his back and gently pushed. As Welker fell
forward, the woman said, “He asked you a question.”
Welker squirmed on the ground, turned and with a hard, malevolent stare up at the woman,
said, “Yeah, I was a prisoner in there. Does that matter anymore? We need to get out of here.
They’re coming after us.”
“Yeah, it matters,” the man said. “It matters a lot.” He turned to Strock and asked, “And you,
you an escaped prisoner, too?”
“I’m Franklin Strock. And no, I’m not an escaped prisoner, not like him. I mean I wasn’t in
there when the Plague, or whatever, struck.”
“And her?” the leader asked, nodding at Ellie who stared up cluelessly at him.
“She’s my wife, a blank. Her mind was erased like most everyone else the morning of the
Plague.” After a sigh, Strock asked, “Now that you know who we are, you mind telling us who
you are?”
The man glanced at the woman, frowning. He turned back to Strock and said, “I’m Captain
Paul Sackett.” He nodded to the woman, “She’s Lieutenant Margot Blaze. The others with us are
soldiers with the Army of New America. We’re on patrol scouting the prison you just escaped
from.”
Strock frowned at the shadowy, sturdy frames standing over him. Four men, and a woman,
dressed in camouflage Army fatigues holding M-16s. Soldiers on patrol from Mount Weather,
fighters for New America, led by Captain Paul Sackett.
 Forty-Six
Courts

“Want to tell me what you were doing in there, Mister Strock?” With a grimace, Captain
Sackett nodded down at Welker. “With the likes of him.”
“Don’t tell him a goddamned thing,” Welker growled.
“Shut the fuck up,” Lieutenant Blaze hissed back.
Strock ignored Welker and explained, “I broke in. Sounds crazy, I know, but I jumped an
inmate in a town north of here, Claysburg, in Pennsylvania.” And again, that seemed ages ago.
“One of the dips, as he calls them,” he went on, nodding to Welker, “I call them blanks—in the
stockroom of a supermarket. I… I killed him, had to, then took his place on the scavenger sortie,
rode back to the prison in a box truck, so I could get inside. They’d captured Ellie, here. My
wife. It’s a long story. But anyway, I went in to get her out. And a guy, too. You may know him,
Jack Flynn. Told me he’s from Mount Weather, New America. He was captured with Ellie.”
Strock sighed. “Like I said, it’s a long story.”
The woman, Lieutenant Blaze, suddenly stepped forward, got down on a knee before Strock,
leaned close and glared at him. “Jack Flynn? Yeah, we know him. You know what happened to
him?”
“Yes, I do,” Strock replied. He swallowed and said, “He’s… he’s dead.”
“Dead?” Lieutenant Blaze sucked in a breath and seemed to almost fall over backward.
Finally, she regained her composure and asked, “How? How do you know that?”
“Because,” Welker blurted with a small laugh and a nod toward Strock. “He killed him.”
“I had no choice,” Strock replied. “I… I had to kill him.”
“Had to?” the woman asked, her voice edgy, full of blame. She slowly stood up and again
glared down at Strock. “You want to explain that? Why you had to?”
Over the next five minutes, Strock reported as coherently as he could, considering the tense
circumstances, his experiences over the last eight plus weeks, from the time in mid-June when
Flynn had crashed his Harley in the woods in front of his cabin while running from Osama
Omar’s biker gang, to just an hour or so ago when, at Flynn’s request, he had driven a knife into
the heart of the beaten and battered man.
“You fucking did what?” Lieutenant Blaze snapped.
In the next instant, she was on Strock, grabbing him by the shoulders as she lowered to her
knees and pushing him backward onto the ground, then straddled him and clutched his neck with
two hands and choked him. Strock started gagging and thrashing as Captain Sackett grabbed
hold of her. With Strock seconds from passing out, or worse, he unclasped her hands from
around his throat and lifted her off him.
Strock kicked himself on his back across the dirt and croaked, “I had no choice. They were
torturing him to death.”
Captain Sackett held Lieutenant Blaze down and ordered her to calm down while she thrashed
and cursed and spat for a time before she finally gave up resisting and went limp.
“Alright, alright,” she whimpered as she sat up with her legs drawn to her chest. She leaned
forward and drew herself into her arms crossed over the top of her knees and stared forward
emptily.
“I had no other choice,” Strock whimpered as if trying to convince her and himself of this.
Captain Sackett said, “Alright, enough of this. We have to get moving.” He looked down at
the woman and said, “Lieutenant Blaze. You with us?’
She nodded limply. After a long moment, she looked up at the Captain and snapped, “Yes, sir,
I’m with you.” She turned to Strock and glaring, asked, “You gonna let him get away with
killing Jack?”
“What would you have me do?”
She sighed, shrugged. After a time, she looked up at the leader. “Let me finish what I started
to do. Choke the life out of him.”
“No,” Captain Sackett said. “That’s not how we roll. In New America, we still have courts to
determine that.”
Lieutenant Blaze laughed and said, “Yeah, courts.”
 Forty-Seven
Freedom Lost

“Let’s get moving,” the Captain said and nodded to Lieutenant Blaze and the three soldiers
waiting dutifully before him. “Break camp.” They went about methodically taking down the
lean-tos and folding the canvas overhangs and stuffing them into knapsacks that were slung over
their backs.
“Alright, Private Mason, tie them up,” said Captain Sackett, nodding to Welker, Strock, and
Ellie.
“Her too?” Strock asked. “She’s no threat.”
The Captain glared at him. “Everyone’s a threat.”
During the exchange, Corporal Mason had dug into a knapsack into which he had placed the
folded tarpaulin and pulled out a line of nylon rope. Upon cutting it into three segments, he came
over to Welker and drew his arms around his back. As he began securing the rope around his
wrists, Welker wiggled free and took a defensive stance facing the patrol. Captain Sackett,
Lieutenant Blaze, and the other three soldiers brought up their M-16s and aimed them at him.
Welker raised his arms, smiled and said, “Whoa. Stand down, homies. No need for that, tying
us. We told you, we escaped from the prison.”
“And, as you admitted, you were incarcerated there before the Event,” the Captain said.
“Therefore, you are a criminal. What will ultimately be done with you will be determined back
home. By the courts. And as for Mister Strock,” the Captain went on, “you’ve admitted killing
Flynn, an agent of our forces.”
“I told you. It was at his request. It was a mercy killing.” Nodding to Welker, he said, “Ask
him.”
“Bullshit,” snapped Lieutenant Blaze glaring at Strock.
Welker smiled and said, “Look, man, I was outta the room when you…”
“Enough!” interrupted Captain Sackett. “All that will be determined back home. Until then, I
think it best that you three be secured. Either you’ll allow it, or we’ll make it happen.
Understood?”
Welker stood his ground before laughing and bowing deferentially, and then reaching his
arms behind his back. “Go ahead,” he said. “Do your duty. Tie me up.”
With a nod, Captain told Private Mason, “Tie them.”
Welker turned to Strock with a grin and said, “See, meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”
Strock ignored the comment and said to the Captain, “At least, tie her in front. She’s
harmless.”
The Captain nodded, and as the soldiers went about tying Ellie’s hands in front of her, she
gave Strock a worried glance.
“It’s alright, Ellie,” he said softly. “It’s alright.”
She bowed her head and watched as they applied the nylon rope.
“Alright,” the Captain said, “Now him.”
When they were done tying Strock’s wrists behind him, the Captain had the three soldiers
guide Strock, Welker, and Ellie behind him through the woods in chilly, pitch-black darkness in
the deep early hours of the morning, back toward Maryland Route 51. Glancing at Lieutenant
Blaze as he walked, Strock noted a perpetual scowl while the tall, lank Captain appeared
tentatively relaxed.
“Can I at least ask where you’re taking us,” Welker said as they emerged from the trees and
brush and started along the shoulder of Route 51. “New America?”
“You’ll find out when we get there,” the Captain replied. “Until then, please shut up.”
Fifteen minutes later, the Captain said, “Here.” The patrol followed him, with Strock, Welker,
and Ellie in tow, as he made a sharp right turn into the woods and strode through the thick
growth of trees and brush. The woods opened into a small clearing in which a camouflaged
Humvee was parked, draped with branches and brush. Strock felt relief. The thought of
stumbling along with his hands tied behind his back for three or more days until they reached
Mount Weather had not been an inviting prospect. Now, it appeared they would drive there, a
trip that Flynn had said would take no more than a couple of hours.
The Captain had the three blank soldiers lay Strock, Welker, and Ellie across the rear
compartment of the Humvee. After they were loaded, he jumped into the driver’s seat while
Lieutenant Blaze took the passenger side and the three blank soldiers slid into the cab behind
them.
After starting the Humvee, the Captain turned and looked back at Strock, Welker, and Ellie in
the rearview mirror.
“We’re off to New America, land of the free and home of the brave,” he said.
 Forty-Eight
Twenty-Fifth Amendment

The Humvee bounced and careened across the rough terrain of the dark woods, slashing
through bramble, brush and low tree branches. Finally, it emerged onto the shoulder of Route 51,
and after bumping down and up a ditch, turned right onto the road.
Strock wiggled around to his right side and strained to see out of the slit of a window along
the rear panel of the Humvee, wondering what was going in the world behind them as they sped
along. After a time, he called out, “How far is it, Captain?”
With a frown, Captain Sackett glanced up at the rearview mirror. Finally, he said, “To the
Mount? Couple hours. If I were you, I’d get some sleep. The rest of you as well.”
“She’s pregnant, you know,” Strock said. “My wife.”
The Captain glanced up in the rearview mirror again and said, “Congratulations. One thing
this world certainly needs is more babies.”
Welker laughed and said, “It ain’t his. It’s Flynn’s. That’s why he killed him.”
Lieutenant Blaze shifted around and stared back past the blank soldiers into the rear
compartment. “Is that true?”
“Sure is,” Welker replied. “I heard Flynn brag about it to him before he killed him.”
“You,” the Lieutenant barked. “The other guy. That true? That why you killed him?”
“No, it’s not true,” Strock replied. “I told you, I killed him because he asked me to. He was in
pain and being tortured, and we couldn’t take him with us.”
“But he told you he was the father of that baby she’s carrying? He told you that?”
“Let it go, Lieutenant,” Captain Sackett chimed in. “That’s for the courts.”
Lieutenant Blaze disregarded the Captain and said, “It’s a simple question, Mister. Is that
what Jack told you?”
“Yeah, he told me that,” Strock admitted. “He told me he…he and Ellie made love at the
cabin when I went into town for provisions. The same morning they were captured.”
Lieutenant Blaze turned and looked forward and seemed to be seething more intensively now.
Strock was now convinced that Flynn had been her lover at Mount Weather before he was sent
on the mission to infiltrate the Supermax. Learning suddenly that he’d made love with a blank
woman he’d just met would understandably hurt and anger her.
After a few seconds, Welker giggled and commented, “Sounds like a soap opera back at your
cabin.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Lieutenant Blaze growled. “Before I come back there and put a bullet in
your brain. In all three of your brains.”
With a frown, Captain Sackett leaned over, and loud enough to hear, whispered, “Give it a
rest, Lieutenant. That’s an order. You hear me.”
She grunted and turned away to stare malevolently out the window at the pitch-black
darkness.
They rode on in silence. Finally, Strock called out, “Captain, will I be given a fair trial? I
mean, from your courts.”
“They’re not really courts,” Captain Sackett said. “They’re tribunals. We’re under martial
law. Our leader is a Marine general, Tom Radley. Goes by the name, Boo.”
Strock frowned and thought a moment, then with a short laugh, asked, “Like from the movie,
To Kill a Mockingbird? That Boo Radley?”
Captain Sackett shrugged and said, “Never saw it.”
“I mean, are they fair?” Strock asked. “Are these tribunals, or kangaroo courts?”
“Don’t know,” the Captain said. “I guess so.”
“Can I ask you something else, Captain?”
Captain Sackett glanced over at Lieutenant Blaze who was still staring out the window,
seething. After a moment, he said, “Sure. Go ahead.”
“What about the President?” Strock asked. “Did he make it to the shelter?”
“Krank?” Captain Sackett said. “Yeah, he made it. But without his mind. They’ve been trying
to rehab him. But he’s like her, your wife. He’s not himself. So, he’s not President anymore and
likely will never be again. General Radley’s taken over, with his ruling council, other generals,
colonels. They call themselves the New America Military Command. When martial law ends, if
it ever does, I guess they’ll have to replace Krank with a new President.”
“That’s under the Twenty-Fifth Amendment,” Strock said. “It’s in the Constitution.”
Strock laid back and closed his eyes. Already enough time had passed, and they had traveled
quite a distance from the prison to give him confidence that they’d actually done it, escaped. But
escaped to what? Martial law administered by a General who went by the name Boo Radley?
And the eventuality that Sheik al-Shahab would send an army to conquer them?
There seemed nothing else to say so after a yawn, Strock turned to Ellie who was between
him and Welker. He whispered, “Go to sleep.” She smiled at him, nodded, then closed her eyes.
Strock leaned to his left and tried unsuccessfully to get comfortable. From the front passenger
seat, he heard Lieutenant Blaze take a heavy breath as she stared angrily into the night.
After a time, Strock fell asleep.
 Forty-Nine
Land of the Free and Home of the Brave

A sudden left turn woke Strock, and he immediately felt tingling and tightness in his arms
behind his back. Ellie was awakened as well, and she turned to him with concern in her eyes.
After a yawn, Strock remembered his situation. He wiggled himself up and around and called
out, “Where are we, Captain?” With that, Welker stirred as well.
Captain Sackett glanced up into the rearview mirror and said, “Where are we? We’re here.
Home sweet home—Mount Weather. At the land of the free and home of the brave.”
The Humvee had slowed to a crawl along an access road leading into the facility. Strock
craned his neck up, trying to see the place, but it was too dark and the windows of the vehicle too
small.
“Why’s it called Mount Weather?” Strock asked. “Let me guess—because it was built to help
America weather the storm of some catastrophe.”
“No,” the Captain replied. “Good guess though. Mount Weather—the mountain we’re on—
was once a weather station, built back in the late eighteen-hundreds or something. Hence the
name. In the late nineteen fifties, it became what it is now, a shelter for the President, Congress,
and other leaders of the government in the event of some catastrophe. Nuclear war, an asteroid
strike, or this—the Event—what’s happening now.”
Captain Sackett flashed the Humvee’s headlights on and off several times as they approached
an entrance gate manned by a platoon of sentries. One of the sentries came over, and the Captain
rolled down his window and lifted an ID badge that hung on a strap around his neck. After the
stern-faced corporal examined the badge, Captain Sackett spent the next couple of minutes
explaining his story. His brief report included what Strock, Ellie, and Welker were doing in the
backseat.
“Thank you, Captain,” the guard said with a polite nod. “You may proceed to the east portal.”
With that, he stepped back and after a sharp salute, turned and nodded to one of the other
sentries. A moment later, a section of the tall chain-link fence, with barb-wire strung over the
top, much like the perimeter fence of the Supermax, started churning sideways permitting the
Humvee’s entrance into the facility.
After passing through the gate, the Humvee negotiated a series of narrow roads. Strock
strained to look out of the slit of a back window and managed to observe several squat buildings
with satellite dishes on their roofs.
The Humvee turned onto a long, narrow road that brought them to an enormous round
stainless steel entrance portal. Strock got a glimpse of it and was reminded of a much larger
version of a thick, impenetrable bank vault. A sentry at the gate came forward, and the Captain
explained himself again. Finally, the thick vault door slowly swung outward and the Humvee
drove into an enormous cavern carved out of solid rock.
The Humvee pulled into a space in a parking lot with other Humvees, Jeeps, golf carts, and
SUVs along the back of the wide lobby. To the left of the parking lot was a bank of four
elevators with large stainless steel doors. After Captain Sackett and Lieutenant Blaze and the
three other soldiers of the patrol had exited the Humvee, two of them helped Strock, Welker, and
Ellie out of the backseat. Once they were out, the Captain ordered them to the elevators.
At the elevators, Captain Sackett tapped a code into a keypad along the wall and seconds later,
one of the steel doors slid open. The soldiers ushered Strock, Welker, and Ellie to the back of the
spacious elevator car and the door closed. There was an immediate jolt, and they zoomed
downward to the depths of the Mount Weather shelter.
The elevator thumped to a stop, and the doors swooshed open into a deep, long cavern. The
craggy rock ceiling of the shelter hung low and dark. As soon as Strock stepped out of the
elevator with the others, he felt a crushing sensation, as if the ceiling was caving down on him,
and his breathing became labored.
Noticing Strock’s stricken expression, Captain Sackett turned to him and said, “You get used
to it.”
As they slowly edged out from the elevator under the stone roof, the shelter seemed to stretch
miles into an endless cavern. There were numerous structures of various shapes and sizes
scattered along it that spanned the length of three football fields. Strock decided immediately that
the crucial difference between this underground city and the world above was the sense of
freedom and release that one can attain only under an endless blue, moonlit or starlit sky.
In the late 1950s, military crews had secretly worked around the clock for three straight years
excavating this enormous chamber out of a solid rock mountain. It’s excavation, the laying of
concrete, and the construction of the buildings and various other structures inside had been part
of America’s continuity of government plan devised during the paranoia of the Cold War. The
underground chamber’s purpose was to serve as a shelter for the President, Congress, Cabinet
secretaries, and other top government officials in the event of a nuclear attack or some other
natural or manmade catastrophe.
The buildings scattered across this vast underground city included a half-dozen squat, long
dormitories—essentially small hotels that could sleep up to two-thousand individuals.
Additionally, there was a two-hundred bed hospital; a dining hall capable of feeding breakfast,
lunch, and dinner to over three-hundred people at any one time; a television and radio studio for
broadcasting announcements to the facility’s inhabitants, and from which communications with
other survivors could be made—provided they could be found; a building nearby with specially
designed air ducts and humidifiers for storage of the many paintings and other artworks that had
been transported from Washington, DC’s National Gallery of Art in the hours and days after the
Mind Plague struck; a structure along the far edge of the cavern with rows of diesel-electric
generators that powered the shelter; and last but not least, a hexagonal building along the far-
right wall that served as administrative offices that included a central meeting chamber for
hoped-for sessions of Congress. Presently, however, it was used only by General Radley and his
council of military advisers known as the New America Military Command in the administration
of martial law.
In addition to these buildings, pumps attached to the end of an aluminum shaft dug from the
shelter’s roof through the rock all the way to the top of Mount Weather facilitated the flow of air
into the shelter. At the far end of the cavern, beyond the array of dorms and other buildings, were
three massive tanks that held the shelter’s drinking water.
As they walked from the elevator into the vast chamber, Strock observed that it was deserted
at this early hour. He assumed the inhabitants of the shelter were safe and comfortably asleep in
their respective dorm rooms.
After walking for a time, Captain Sackett stopped and raised a hand halting the patrol. He
turned to Strock, Welker, and Ellie, nodded to the dormitory building to his left and said, “We’re
here.”
“Where’s here?” Welker asked.
“The brig,” replied Captain Sackett. “Your new home for the time being, until the powers-
that-be figure out what to do with you.”
The Captain turned to the blank soldiers and ordered them to wait outside and guard Ellie. He
took hold of Strock’s arm, and Lieutenant Blaze grabbed Welker’s, and they marched them up a
short set of steps into the lobby of the dormitory. As the Captain tugged him forward, Strock
turned to him, nodded back toward Ellie, and asked, “What about her? Where’s she going?”
“Once we drop you off here, we’ll take her to the infirmary,” the Captain replied. “Have her
checked out. Find out how she and the baby are doing. Pregnancies are few and far between
down here. So, she’ll be well cared for. Need to restock the population, right?” He looked over at
Lieutenant Blaze with her short-cropped hair and masculine stance and sighed. “But too many
men and not enough women right now to really get that going.”
As Captain Sackett and Lieutenant Blaze strode into the lobby with Strock and Welker in tow,
the sentries behind the counter came to attention and saluted.
“At ease, gentlemen,” the Captain said. “These are the prisoners we called ahead about.
Inform Colonel Denton they’ve arrived.”
“Yes, sir,” the sentry said. He jotted something into a log on the counter, then spoke into a
walkie-talkie. He made another call, and four guards came striding down a stairwell behind the
counter. As Strock and Welker were handed over to their custody, Captain Sackett turned to
Strock and said, “Good luck.”
Lieutenant Blaze frowned and said, “Good luck? They should get the firing squad.”
Without another word, she followed Captain Sackett out the door.

With their hands still tied behind their backs, Strock and Welker trudged obediently one-after-
the-other up a stairwell with the guards directly behind them. As they reached the landing at the
top of the stairs, Strock yawned. The morning had started early with his trip back to St. Bart’s,
and ironically was ending here with him in captivity again and being taken to yet another prison
cell. He was tired.
“Move it,” one the guards said. “Down the far end of the hallway.”
As Strock moved with the guards to the other end of the hall, he wondered how many of the
cells were occupied, and what crimes their respective occupants had committed. Finally, they
came to two open doors across from each other. Two of the guards escorted Strock into the one
on his right, while the other two guards led Welker into the cell to the left.
As Welker was being led into his cell, he looked back at Strock, winked and said, “Nice
knowin’ ya, hombre. Be safe and stay white.”
Strock smirked as the two guards pushed him into his cell, entered after him, and slammed the
door.
 Fifty
The Interrogation

His cell reminded Strock of a room in a no-frills hotel chain. There was a full-sized bed in the
center with a small oak desk against the side wall and a squat dresser across from the bed. A
cramped bathroom with a stand-up shower and no tub was off the small foyer leading into the
room. Though certainly more comfortable than the concrete cell he’d occupied for two days at
the Supermax, it was still a cell, a place of captivity.
The guards led Strock to the side wall, turned him around and cut off the nylon rope from his
wrists. Strock let out a sigh as he brought his arms forward and stretched them out. He was led
over to his bed and seated next to a pile of clothes. He found fresh skivvies, a white tee-shirt, and
a gray jumpsuit.
One of the guards stepped back from the bed and looking down at Strock, said, “Colonel
Denton will be up to interview you in ten minutes. Take a shower and get into those.” He nodded
at the pile of clothes on the bed next to Strock and added, “Then wait.”
“Who is Colonel Denton?”
“Never mind who he is,” the guard said. “But you’ll want to answer his questions. If you
don’t, he knows ways to make you. That’s all you need to know.” The guard grimaced and
added, “And tomorrow, we cut off that damned ugly beard.”
The guard nodded at his comrade and then they turned and walked out of the room. Strock
heard the click of the door being locked.

After showering and putting on the fresh skivvies and gray jumpsuit the guards had left him,
Strock sat on the edge of the bed. As he was waiting, he fell asleep sitting up. The click of his
door being unlocked awakened him.
Strock shook himself alert as the door opened and in strode a tall man with an athletic build
wearing the same camouflage uniform of the Mount Weather army. A gold leaf on each of his
collars told Strock that the man entering the room must be Colonel Denton. He had short-
cropped, sandy-blonde hair and approached Strock with a friendly expression. Two guards
marched in with him. When the Colonel stopped and regarded Strock, one of the guards snarled
at Strock, “Get up and stand at attention.”
Strock pushed himself off the bed and stood stiffly before the Colonel. After looking him
over, the Colonel nodded to the edge of the bed and said, “You can sit back down.” He then went
over, turned around the armless, wooden chair at the oak desk and faced Strock. He looked him
over for a while longer, then asked, “Your name is Franklin Strock?”
“Yes, sir,” Strock said.
“I’m Colonel Bradley Denton, Intel and Security Commander down here. This facility is
under martial law and is commanded by General Radley. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Do you understand why you’ve been detained?”
“No, sir.”
“You escaped from the prison, correct?”
 “Yes, sir.”
“You were an inmate there?”
“No, sir.” Strock looked across at the Colonel. “Not really. As I told Captain Sackett…”
“Yes, yes,” Colonel Denton said, “You killed an inmate and impersonated him, so you could
enter the prison to rescue your wife. The woman we are holding in medical.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And as Captain Sackett also told me, you have admitted killing one of our intel agents, Jack
Flynn, in the course of your escape from the prison.”
“Yes, but,” Strock replied, then narrowed his eyes and said, “Sir, I’m not trying to be difficult,
but I’m wondering if I should speak with a lawyer. About my rights. I’m a lawyer, but I don’t
wish to defend myself. I mean, another mind, versed in your law.”
The Colonel smiled as if he was looking at a child who’d just asked a silly question. “The
right to counsel doesn’t exist down here,” he said. “As I said, we’re under martial law. The rights
guaranteed by the Constitution have been, temporarily at least, abrogated, set aside. That
includes habeas corpus, the privilege against self-incrimination, and the right to counsel.” The
Colonel sighed and added, “I’m really not all that interested in your killing of Agent Flynn. That
is for the Judge Advocate and General Radley to sort out. What I want to know is what you
observed while inside the prison.”
For the next ten minutes, Strock described for Colonel what he’d seen inside the Supermax.
That it was ruled by an Islamic jihadist by the name of Sheik Abu al-Shahab intent on
establishing a Muslim caliphate across the world by violence if necessary.
“And the surviving inmates at the prison,” the Colonel asked, “could they think?”
“Some can,” Strock said. “But most are blanks. That’s what I call people who lost their minds
during the outbreak of whatever caused it. The Sheik has about ten to fifteen followers who
didn’t become blanks. Didn’t lose their minds. One of them was the individual caught with me
outside the prison. Kenny Welker.”
The Colonel nodded and rubbed his chin as if mulling things over. After a time, he said, “So,
essentially, the inmates who were affected by the disease have been brainwashed to follow al-
Shahab’s creed. They are under his command and control. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, it appears so. As I explained, they’ve been programmed to perform a daily set of
rituals and prayers in furtherance of the Islamic creed.”
The Colonel lowered his gaze and seemed to consider that information with some measure of
concern. Finally, he stood with a grunt and said, “Thank you, Mr. Strock.”
As Colonel Denton started out of the room, Strock called out, “About killing Jack Flynn,
Colonel, I’m sorry—but I had to kill him. I had no other choice.”
The Colonel turned and said, “As I said, you can explain what happened to Agent Flynn to the
military tribunal that will likely be convened to consider whatever charges are filed in regard to
that. Including murder.”
“Murder? Sir, it wasn’t murder,” Strock pleaded.
“As I said, you’ll be given an opportunity to present your side to the tribunal.”
As the Colonel started again for the door, Strock called after him, “Colonel, sir, what if they
don’t believe me? What if I’m found guilty?”
Colonel Denton turned to Strock and said, “If you’re found guilty, Mr. Strock, you’ll be shot
by firing squad.”
 Fifty-One
If Only

The prospect of standing before a firing squad in the immediate future did not prevent Strock
from quickly falling into a deep and tranquil sleep after Colonel Denton left his cell. Several
hours later, he woke with a start and sat straight up. He looked around and for a time, could not
fathom where he was and what he was doing there. Gradually, the nightmare he was living came
back to him. He thought, If only I hadn’t gone down the hill from the cabin and helped Jack
Flynn.
If only…
But he had, and now it seemed entirely possible that he’d be executed for a crime he didn’t
commit. Or perhaps, he was guilty. Perhaps, his claim of stabbing Flynn through the heart and
killing him had been a subterfuge masking his actual motive—his jealousy over Flynn’s ability
to reach Ellie in a way he’d been unable to in the months after the Plague.
Strock pushed off the covers, climbed out of bed and began pacing the cell. If only, he kept
thinking. Finally, he sat on the chair at his desk, leaned forward and rested his head on his hands.
After a time, he fell back asleep. The sound of the door unlocking sometime later awakened him.
The same two guards who had earlier accompanied Colonel Denton entered the room. They
seemed taken aback to find Strock sitting at his desk and not under the covers of his bed. One of
the guards ordered him into the bathroom to “shave off that God-awful beard.” While his
comrade held a pistol on him from outside the cramped bathroom, the guard gave Strock a
scissors, a can of shaving cream and a razor.
“You know how to shave it off or do you want me to?” asked the guard.
“No, I can handle it.”
Strock used the scissors to cut his long, thick beard to a stubble, then slathered up his face and
proceeded to methodically cut off the hair down to his skin. He missed a couple times and drew
blood to the chirp of one of the guards watching him. After ten minutes, he was finished, and the
guard retrieved the scissors, shaving cream and razor.
“Now, I get to cut your hair,” said the guard. “Can’t have you looking like a hippie before the
tribunal.”
As he plugged an electric clipper into a socket next to the vanity and turned it on, Strock
glanced at his nametag identifying him as Sargent Nick Willson. Strock decided that the other
guard pointing the M-16, who never spoke, must be a blank. Within minutes Sgt. Willson had
shaved Strock bald. In five minutes, he had gone from looking like a Muslim warrior to a convict
about to stand trial.
“Now, take a shower, and put these on,” Sgt. Willson ordered as he handed Strock a pair of
fresh skivvies and a gray jumpsuit. “We’ll be back in ten minutes with breakfast.”

Breakfast consisted of dry cereal, a cup of skim milk, and a juice box that Strock hoped
wouldn’t be his last meal on earth. Despite this worry, Strock was hungry enough to quickly
devour the meal and drink his cup of juice. Having finished, he looked up at Willson and said,
“I’m done.”
 “Let’s go, then,” Willson said.
Strock was permitted a bathroom break before leaving for his trial. The mirror in the
bathroom reflected a man he hardly recognized. His face was marked by harsh, rugged lines and
the wild look in his narrow blue eyes was enhanced by his now-bald pate.
It seemed fantastic to Strock that less than a year ago, he’d been one of the many suits who sat
in a windowless office from eight to six, five days a week, talking on his cell phone to other
suits, or typing out complaints, motions and legal briefs on his laptop, and then occasionally
venture out to courts for conferences with bored judges’ clerks or to argue motions or conduct a
rare trial before mirthless or mean-spirited judges, or visit another suit’s office conference room
for depositions, and then return to the office for a few more hours of work and even a few more
on most weekends. Most of the time, the work had interested and sometimes even excited him.
But now he saw it for what it had been—a useless waste of time.
Nothing he had ever believed and dedicated himself to mattered anymore, and presently, he
had to admit that none of it had mattered back then. Now, he realized that whatever meaning it
had infused into his life and the sense of self-esteem it had given him had been false and devoid
of reality. The only thing that mattered now was surviving to the next day, and perhaps, helping
mankind avoid extinction. The beliefs that society had pushed on him, and everyone else in the
time before the Plague, had motivated a kind of automatic behavior and certainly failed to
provide his life with genuine meaning.
Strock also accepted that the beliefs advanced by Brother Paul and Sheik al-Shahab, and
likely those being pushed by General Radley and his Military Command, wouldn’t provide
genuine meaning either. Instead, he needed—indeed everyone needed—to find a place where
people believed in things that would make life bearable again for each and every person, and in
the process, enhance the possibility of human survival.
Willson’s pounding on the door abruptly roused Strock from these thoughts. “Let’s go. Your
bathroom break is over.”
Strock sighed. He flushed the toilet, and when he stepped out into the room, Willson told him
to hold his hands out. When Strock obeyed, he slapped metal handcuffs on his wrists.
“This way,” he said.
Strock finally saw that the nametag of the other guard read, “Pvt.. Matt Thorpe.” Though he
had a name, as a blank, he had no identity. He was what the Military Command told him to be,
and he always did what he was told.
 Fifty-Two
Tribunal

As Willson and Thorpe led Strock out of his cell, Strock asked, “Where’re you taking me?”
“I told you, to your tribunal,” Willson said. “You’re on trial this morning. In the headquarters
building.”
Willson and Thorpe escorted Strock down the hallway, then led him down the stairwell to the
front lobby. At the front counter, Willson scribbled something in the logbook, signing Strock out
of the brig. Both guards grabbed an arm and led him out the front door.
Upon exiting the building, Strock was again assailed by the stark, pendulous vastness of the
underground shelter that stretched on and on, seemingly forever, toward a blank horizon under a
boundless fake sky of gray, craggy rock. After marching a hundred yards or so across a vast,
gray concrete quad with electric carts racing about around them on various missions, they
reached the squat, square headquarters building that housed the offices of General Radley and his
staff.
Willson and Thorpe directed Strock up another short series of steps into the lobby and
Willson presented the sentries with a document that Strock assumed was an official order. After
the sentry nodded, Willson signed the log book, registering their arrival, then tugged Strock into
a wide, dark hallway. Busy soldiers in camouflage fatigues wore solemn expressions as they
marched along the hallway around them.
Finally, Willson and Thorpe led Strock into a large conference room that had been arranged
into a makeshift courtroom. Three metal tables were set parallel to the far wall with empty chairs
behind each of them. Two additional gray metal tables had been placed at a slight angle facing
the three tables. Roughly halfway between the two sets of tables was an armless witness chair.
After Strock was led to the table on the left side of the room, Willson said, “Stand here,
straight and tall.” He then stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back to the right of
Strock’s table while Pvt. Thorpe took an identical stance on the other side.
The courtroom door opened and in strode a tall, grim-faced man with thinning blonde hair,
wearing the usual camouflage fatigues. He glanced at Strock as he walked over and stood behind
the adjacent table.
Must be the prosecutor, Strock thought. Looking over, he noticed two silver bars on the man’s
collars and thought, Captain Somebody.
Strock, Willson, Thorpe, and Captain Somebody stood patiently with solemn expressions
facing the empty tables in front them for a time before a door along the far wall opened. Another
stern-faced guard in camouflage fatigues stepped through it into the courtroom and called, “A-
Ten-Shun!” Strock came to attention as Willson and the other guard and Captain Somebody did
so as three officers in dress uniforms, with lines of medals pinned across their upper left chests,
entered one after the other and sat down behind each of the three tables. Each of the officers had
solid, athletic frames and short-cropped hair. They wore grim expressions as they clasped their
hands together on their respective tables and looked out at Strock, the prosecutor, and guards
standing at attention before them.
The officer seated at the middle table leaned forward. Scowling at Strock standing before him,
he announced, “This tribunal has been convened in accordance with the regulations of the New
America Military Command that has been established by declaration of martial law pursuant to
Title 10 of the United States Code and the Constitution of the United States of America.
“I am Colonel Mathis Young, appointed Chief Justice of this tribunal. To my right is Major
Maxwell Peterson, associate justice, and to my left, Major Kenneth Jaworski, second associate
justice. We have been appointed to conduct these proceedings to determine, by majority vote, the
guilt of the accused, Franklin R. Strock, a citizen of the former United States, and now, New
America, of certain charges filed against him, and if found guilty, to determine the appropriate
sentence to be imposed.”
The Chief Justice narrowed his eyes at Strock and asked, “You are Franklin R. Strock, the
accused in this case?”
Strock glanced at Willson standing at attention to his right, then quickly looked forward and
said, “Yes, Sir, I am, Your Honor.” He swallowed. “I am Franklin Strock.”
The Colonel looked to the thin-haired, slight man standing behind the adjacent table and
asked, “And you are Captain Steven Buckley, judge advocate of the Military Command
appointed to prosecute the charges against the accused?”
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
“Very well, Captain Buckley, you may read the charges and specifications thereunder filed on
behalf of the Military Command against the accused.”
“Yes, Sir,” said the Captain. He lifted a single document from the table and read from it,
“Charge One, Specification First, in that Franklin R. Strock, on or about 19th day of September,
in the First Year of the Event, with premediated design, did kill Jack Flynn.”
The Chief Justice turned to Strock with a stern frown and asked, “Do you understand the
Charge and Specification thereunder, Mr. Strock?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I believe so.”
“And how do you plead to the charge?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“And to the Specification? How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“Very well,” he said and turned to the Captain. “You may proceed, Captain Buckley.”
Captain Buckley gave a brief, stilted, succinct opening statement, claiming that he would
produce evidence demonstrating that the accused stabbed Jack Flynn, an intelligence agent for
the Military Command, in cold blood, to avenge Agent Flynn’s supposed love affair with the
accused wife, Eleanor Strock—a “zombie,” he added dryly—possibly resulting in her
impregnation.
With that, the Captain went on, “In conclusion, I respectfully urge this esteemed tribunal to
reject the accused’s claim that the killing of Agent Flynn was justified, and instead conclude that
he had an evil motive and premediated design, when he stabbed the victim to death, and
therefore find him guilty of the charge and specification and sentence him to death by firing
squad.”
The Chief Judge turned to Strock and said, “Do you have an opening statement, Mr. Strock?”
Strock looked down at the table and tried to gather himself. The prosecutor’s final words
stuck with him—and sentence him to death by firing squad. Despite his legal training, Strock felt
ill-prepared to defend his life.
 “Mr. Strock? An opening statement?”
Strock looked up and mumbled his defense. Upon finishing, he felt he had sounded
unpersuasive.
“So, your defense to the charge and specification is justifiable homicide,” the Chief Judge
said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
The Chief Judge nodded, turned back to Captain Buckley and said, “You may proceed with
your case, Captain.”
 Fifty-Three
Trial and Judgment

The prosecutor’s first witness was Captain Sackett. From the witness stand—the armless,
wooden chair in the middle of the room—the Captain reported the capture of Strock, Welker and
a woman zombie the previous night. He then related Strock’s admission about killing Flynn.
On cross-examination, Strock asked him, “Did I tell you about killing Agent Flynn in
response to your questions, or was it voluntarily offered?”
“No, Mr. Strock. You volunteered it.”
“And did I tell you that I killed Agent Flynn because of his severe injuries from his having
been tortured, to save him from further torture, and because he asked me to take his life?”
“Yes, I recall that.”
“That’s all, Captain,” Strock said. “Good to see you again.”
Captain Sackett nodded and was dismissed.
The prosecutor’s next witness was Kenny Welker.
Strock frowned and turned as a guard escorted a sneering, hand-cuffed Welker into the
courtroom and sat him down on the witness chair. Like Strock, his beard and head had been
shaved. After the Chief Justice inquired whether he swore to tell the truth during this proceeding,
Welker smirked and gave a half-hearted, “Yes, Judge, I sure do,”
“Your witness, Captain.”
As Captain Buckley lifted his yellow legal pad with scribbled questions, Welker grinned over
at Strock.
“Do you know the accused, Franklin Strock?” the Captain asked.
As he continued staring at Strock, Welker replied, “Yeah, I know him. He faked being a dip
back in the prison…”
“A dip?” the Chief Judge interrupted.
Welker turned forward and nodding, said, “Yes, sir. You know, a dip—someone who lost
their mind, can’t think for themselves anymore.”
As the Chief Judge looked down and jotted something on a legal pad before him, he said,
“Alright, continue.”
“Anyway,” Welker went on, “he was pretending to be a dip in a platoon of dips I commanded.
See, when most everyone in the jail became dips, there were some of us that didn’t, including
this self-professed Sheik or whatever he is. He was one of the Muslim terrorists who helped plan
9/11 or something—a real bad actor. Anyway, he and a few of his fellow Muslim terrorists who
hadn’t lost their minds took over the prison. I wasn’t no Arab, but I wasn’t a dip, either, so he put
me to work. It was either work for him, or they’d kill me.
“Anyway, let’s see, a couple nights back…” he swiveled, raised his handcuffed hands and
jutted them at Strock, “he tried to kill me, wanting to rescue his wife, Ellie. Pretty girl. Nice bod
and all that. But a dip herself.”
When Welker fell silent for a time, Captain Buckley asked, “In the course of that rescue, what
happened?”
Welker looked perplexed, then gathered his thoughts and continued his story. How he
convinced Strock that he wanted to escape the prison as well, and after rescuing Ellie, they went
and found Flynn. At the time, the idea was to rescue Flynn and take off.
“And you found Agent Flynn?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe his condition when you found him?”
“He was in pretty rough shape,” Welker said. “You know, knocked around pretty bad by
those terrorists. Bruised up.”
“In your opinion, was he close to death?”
When Strock suddenly got to his feet and objected, the Chief Judge turned to him with a harsh
expression and scolded, “Sit down, Mr. Strock. You think this is a court of law where lawyers
are allowed by feckless civilian judges to spar and play games? Well, it isn’t. As you have been
told, it’s a military tribunal that intends to get to the truth.” The Chief Judge turned to Welker
and said, “Answer the question—in your opinion, was Agent Flynn close to death?”
As Strock sheepishly sat down, Welker said, “No, not in my opinion.”
“Could he have come with you and the accused in making an escape from the prison, as you
intended?” Captain Buckley asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Did you hear Agent Flynn tell the accused something in his cell?”
“Yeah, I did. I heard him tell the accused that he’d screwed his wife,” Welker said and then
turned around to the Chief Judge and gave a sheepish nod. He again glanced at Strock and
flashed a wry grin. A moment later, he turned back to Captain Buckley and added, “And that he
thought he’d knocked her up—I mean, got her pregnant.”
“He told the accused that?”
“Yes. Heard him myself.”
“How did the accused react when Agent Flynn told him this?”
“He got, you know, flushed, red-faced. Angry. You know, grit his teeth.”
“What happened then?’
“Then, he stabbed him.”
“You saw him do that?”
“No, not exactly,” Welker said. “He asked me to leave him alone with the guy, this Flynn
fellow, in the cell. So, I took the girl, and we went outside into the hallway. When he came out,”
he added, nodding toward Strock, “he looked green in the gills.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said he’d put him out of his misery.”
“Did you ever hear Agent Flynn ask the accused to do that—kill him, put him out of misery?”
“No, sir. Never said anything about having us kill him when I was in the room.”
“And Mrs. Strock, where was she when this transpired?”
“Sir?”
“Was she present?”
“Yeah, and she seemed really happy to see this guy, Flynn.” Again, Welker turned, smirked at
Strock, swung around again to face Captain Buckley and added, “You know, her eyes lit up, and
she chirped out his name—Jack—like a little lovebird.”
“Was she present in the room when the accused stabbed Agent Flynn?’
“No, sir. Like I say, I took her out with me when Mr. Strock asked us to leave him alone with
that Flynn fella.”
 “I have no further questions, Sirs.”
As Captain Buckley sat, the Chief Judge turned to Strock and said, “You may ask.”
Strock started by asking Welker a series of questions meant to expose his vile character, and
more or less, got him to admit that he was an unabashed white-supremacist who had been
sentenced to death for murdering two black men and one black woman during an anti-police
brutality rally staged by a black rights’ group in Mobile, Alabama. But Strock could not shake
Welker from his testimony that Flynn didn’t look near death, or that he hadn’t heard him begging
Strock to end his misery and the prospect of succumbing to torture by killing him.
“No, I never saw or heard any of that,” asserted Welker, bending forward and looking up at
Strock with a narrow, defiant gaze. “If it was up to me, we’d have taken him with us. You was
the one who stayed behind in the room and stabbed him to death.” Then, he added, “No, that was
no mercy killing. That was an act of vengeance, pure and simple.”
“You know that’s not true,” Strock said, seeming deflated by Welker’s intransigence. Captain
Buckley rose and objected, “Argumentative, Sir.”
Strock said, “I have no further questions,” and walked back behind his table to sit limply
down.
After the prosecutor announced that he had no further proof to present and was “resting,” the
Chief Justice turned to Strock and asked if he wished to present any evidence.
“Yes, sir. Myself,” Strock said. After the Chief Judge had him recite the oath, Strock told his
story—the same story he’d been telling all along—that he’d killed Flynn out of mercy, and upon
Flynn’s own spirited request, to save him from further torture and suffering and prevent him
from revealing the location of Mount Weather and any other information Sheik Abu al-Shahab
might find useful in attacking it.
After a surprisingly brief cross-examination by Captain Buckley, Strock returned to his table,
told the Chief Judge he had nothing further to present and the case was closed. The members of
the tribunal solemnly exited the courtroom through the same door along the rear wall from which
they had entered to deliberate in whatever room was back there.
During the wait, Captain Buckley sat stiffly staring forward at his table while Strock slouched
in his chair and sighed. At some point, Willson looked down at Strock and nodded for him to sit
up straight.
Half an hour later, the panel solemnly paraded in and sat at their respective tables. The guards
snapped to attention as the judges entered and Captain Buckley stood and came to attention as
well. With his left hand, Willson gestured for Strock to stand.
The Chief Justice clasped his hands together on the table, leaned forward and glared at Strock.
Finally, he announced the verdict in a clear, booming voice.
“Upon due deliberation, this tribunal has found the evidence insufficient for a finding of
guilty on the charge and specification thereunder. However, we find that there is sufficient proof
that your killing of Agent Flynn was reckless. Accordingly, you are found guilty of the lesser
crime of reckless murder, and you are hereby sentenced to a term of indefinite exile.” He turned
to Captain Buckley. “Prepare the order. This tribunal is closed.”
Captain Buckley nodded and seemed unmoved by the verdict. As the panel stood and strode
out of the courtroom through the back door, everyone, including Strock, came to attention. When
the door closed, Willson walked over to Captain Buckley as the prosecutor scribbled something
on a form. He handed it to Willson, looked away and strode out of the courtroom without even
glancing at Strock.
 Holding the form Captain Buckley had given him, Willson walked back to Strock’s table and
said, “Let’s go.”
“Indefinite exile? Where? Back to the brig?”
“No,” Willson said as he and Thorpe grabbed his arms and started leading him out of the
courtroom. “To the gulag.”
 Fifty-Four
Firing Squad

Willson and Thorpe led Strock out of the administrative building and crossed the quad
diagonally to the elevators at the far-left end of the shelter. As they approached the sentry unit
stationed there, Strock saw that two other guards were coming toward the elevators from the
opposite direction escorting a handcuffed Welker.
As they approached the Sergeant in charge of the sentries, Welker smirked at Strock and said,
“Perfect. At least, I’m taking you with me.”
Strock looked at Willson and frowned. The Sergeant at the sentry stationed glared at the
guards escorting Welker and said, “Keep that prisoner’s mouth shut.”
“Fuck you,” Welker said to the Sergeant. One of the guards escorting him used a billy club to
slap Welker across his left arm. Following the smack, he glared up at the guard and swore under
his breath.
One of the elevator doors opened, and the guards pushed Welker inside. When the door closed
with a whoosh, Strock looked at Willson and asked, “Where they taking him?”
“To fulfill his sentence,” Willson said. “Death by firing squad.”
“And me?”
“Like I said, we’re taking you to the gulag.”
After a short wait, another of the elevator doors opened, and Willson and Thorpe tugged
Strock into the wide car. When Willson pressed the “up” button on the inside panel, Strock
asked, “We’re going up? Topside?”
As the door closed, Willson turned to Strock with a crooked smile and said, “Yeah, topside.
Lucky you.”
The door closed with a whoosh, and the elevator glided upward with a low hum. A few
seconds later, it slowed, and Strock had to brace himself as it came to a stop. When the metal
door slid open, Strock was ushered to a lot at the far end of the lobby where dozens of battery-
powered carts were parked. Willson led Strock to the nearest one, seated him on the passenger
side, then went around the front of the cart and sat in the driver’s seat. After Thorpe took a seat
in the row behind Strock, Willson released the brake pedal, pressed the accelerator and off they
went.
As they approached the entrance door of the shelter’s east portal, they were met by yet
another sentry detail. After the sentry-in-charge examined Strock’s papers, he nodded, strolled
over to a control stanchion and pressed a red button. A moment later, the wide, thick metal door
—still reminding Strock of a bank vault—began to slowly swing open.
A platoon of guards carrying M-16s stationed outside the portal watched mirthlessly as the
cart hummed past them into the open air. Willson made a right turn, and they headed down the
main road toward a group of red brick buildings and Quonset huts constructed decades ago along
several roads that made up a kind of town square above the Mount Weather underground shelter.
Several other carts were also on the road that morning, going this way and that about their
business.
After a left turn, Willson pulled up before one of three Quonset huts just past the main group
of buildings and parked. Farther down that road was the gated entrance to the facility that the
Humvee driven by Captain Sackett had come through last night.
“Alright,” Willson said to Strock as he jumped out of the cart. “Get out.”
Strock stepped out of the cart and saw several soldiers in the usual camouflage fatigues
patrolling the front of the Quonset hut with the muzzles of their M-16s pointed toward the
ground.
“Welcome to the gulag,” Willson added.
He and Thorpe took hold of Strock’s arms, marched him up the front steps of the hut that led
into the lobby, and approached a table behind which stood a grim-faced soldier. Two other
soldiers with their pistols holstered stood at-ease on each side of the table. Willson handed the
soldier behind the table Strock’s detention order. After scanning it, he nodded and told Willson
to remove Strock’s restraints. Willson lifted Strock’s arms and used a key to unlock the
handcuffs.
“He’s all yours,” Willson told the soldier, then turned to Strock and said, “Good luck.”
Willson and Thorpe turned and left the lobby.
As they were leaving, the guard behind the table, whose ID tag indicated the name,
“Reynolds,” said to Strock, “Your bunk is lucky number 13.” He gestured over his shoulder into
the hut. “A sheet and blanket and pillow have been laid out on it. You’ve missed lunch. Dinner is
at seventeen-hundred hours. Five o’clock in layman’s terms. That’s it. Follow orders around
here, don’t malinger, make a fuss, you’ll be fine.” He smiled and added, “Better than a firing
squad, eh?”
Strock nodded glumly, and Reynolds added, “Well, go ahead. Your bunk’s not gonna make
itself. The rest of them are out back, in the recreation area.”
“Them? Who?”
The soldier smirked and said, “Why, Madame President and her cabinet.”
A crack of gunfire erupted from out near the far perimeter of the facility.
“What was that?” asked Strock.
“Sounds like a firing squad.”
 Fifty-Five
Madame President

After making up his bunk, Strock strolled down an aisle between the other made-up bunks
toward the back of the Quonset hut. Pushing open the back door, he stepped outside into the
warm late August afternoon. He took a deep breath, happy to be outside again under a real,
crystal blue sky. And happy to be still alive.
Strock squinted across the spacious enough recreation yard enclosed by a ten-foot high chain-
link fence. Three metal picnic tables chained to a cement pad occupied the middle of the yard.
Next to the tables was a small asphalt basketball court with a pole on which hung a metal net-less
rim. Two bored looking soldiers holding M-16s stood watching outside the fence.
A group of men and women of varying ages milled about the picnic tables. When Strock
emerged from the back entrance of the hut, they turned and stared at him. After a time, one of
them, a stout woman in her mid-fifties, broke free from the group and started toward him. Within
a couple feet of Strock, she smiled, stuck out her right hand and said, “Janice Harden. Nice to
meet you.”
Strock nodded, reached out his right hand, shook hers and said, “Franklin Strock. Nice to
meet you.”
A tall, gangly white-haired fellow, looking to be in his seventies, sauntered over and joined
them. “Know who you’re talkin’ to, young fella?” he asked Strock. He had a silky-smooth,
decidedly southern drawl.
Strock shrugged, shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Why, Janice here is the President of the United States of America.” He looked at the woman.
“Madame President Harden.”
“Oh,” was all Strock could muster as he turned to the woman.
“Our first woman president, by golly,” the man said and wheezed out a small laugh.
“Oh, Jed, stop it,” Janice said. “I’m not president of anything.” She narrowed her eyes and
asked Strock, “So what have you done to be exiled here—to the gulag, as they call it.”
“What she means is,” the man beside her drawled, “what act of resistance did you commit to
lose your place down under.”
After a sigh, Strock launched into his story, the brief version or, at least, as brief as he could
make it. After five minutes, he was finished telling them.
The man nodded, seeming impressed. President Harden cocked her head and offered, “That’s
quite a tale.”
“So, the rumors are true,” the man added, “the prison caliphate exists.”
“Yes,” Strock replied. “I’m afraid so.”
The man looked at the woman and raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Gives the General
further excuse to hold onto power.”
“Before we start talking politics in front of this young man,” President Harden said. “I think
more formal introductions are in order.”
“Certainly,” the man said. He turned to Strock, and sticking out his right hand, said, “I’m
Jedediah Waddell. Congressman Jedediah Waddell, to be exact, representing the fifth
congressional district of the great state of North Carolina. Esse Quam Videri, that’s our state
motto, ‘To be, rather than to seem.’ What does it mean? We would rather be precise than seem to
be. We’re literal people.” He wheezed out a chuckle. “In short, you won’t find a true North
Carolinian spewing any bullshit.” He smiled at the woman. “Excuse my French, Madame
President.”
After a brief nod and smile in return, she turned to Strock and added, “And, as I said, I’m
Janice Harden. Secretary of Education before the Event.” She narrowed her eyes at Strock. “At
least, that’s what we here call it—the Event, when almost everyone on the planet lost their
minds.”
“I call it the Mind Plague,” Strock said.
She nodded, “As good a name as any.” With a shrug, she added, “If it’s a plague. I mean
caused by a virus or something, and not caused by something entirely else.”
“You see, young man,” Congressman Waddell interrupted, “by virtue of her status as the
Secretary of Education before the Event, the Mind Plague, or whatever you want to call it, she
became President of the United States of America, pursuant to the Presidential Succession Act of
1947, Section 19, subsection d-1, to be precise.
“See, all the rest of them in the line of succession after President Krank and Vice-President
Schilling were either dead, couldn’t be found, or had lost their minds like most everyone else.
So, as Secretary of Education, under the law of the land, the office of the presidency fell upon
Miss Harden here. And thus, she became, President Harden.”
He sighed and continued, “Only, our dictator general down yonder wouldn’t have any of it.
General Radley has refused to rescind his declaration of martial law, though we, and some of our
brethren up here with us, have loudly protested that martial law has run its course and is no
longer necessary to preserve the peace and the nation. It’s supposed to be a temporary thing
anyway, and thus, as now, when it is no longer required, he is duty-bound to relinquish military
control to civilian authority.”
“Worse than that,” President Harden added, “our continued, and as the esteemed congressman
points out, loud protestations, resulted in our being charged with sedition. After trials before the
same kind of kangaroo court you probably appeared before, without the benefit of constitutional
protections, each of us were convicted and exiled from the shelter. Exiled up here, to what is now
fondly, or not, called the gulag.” After a sigh, she added, “So here we sit, contemplating our next
move if there is one. And now, you are one of us, Franklin Strock, simply because, I suppose,
they couldn’t figure out what else to do with you.”
After another sigh, President Harden continued, “Well, I suppose you deserve to be brought
up to date. To learn what’s been going on around here the last year or so. We weren’t always
exiles, you know. That’s a recent thing.”
“Let’s tell him about it,” the congressman interrupted. “Let’s tell him all about it.”
 Fifty-Six
Messages

President Harden began by telling Strock about what happened in Washington, D.C., in the
days after the Event. The Military Command that had instituted martial law, headed by General
Radley, quickly gathered together those government officials who hadn’t lost their minds, and
those who had, the so-called “zombies” that included President Krank and the First Lady, and
shipped them off to the Mount Weather underground shelter.
From the neighborhoods around DC, and from several small towns near Mount Weather, the
military then rounded up around another eight hundred men, women, and children who could
still think, and around five hundred zombies. Once down in the shelter, the zombies were trained
to pledge allegiance to the New American flag and to obey orders issued by those presently in
command down there.
“Trained? You mean brainwashed,” Congressman Waddell claimed. “To serve the Military
Command, and its leader, his heinous, Heir General Boo Radley!”
“Now, Jedidiah, mind your mouth,” said the President.
“That’s how it was for the monks at St. Bart’s,” Strock said. “The blanks. And for the inmates
in the Supermax. Brainwashed to believe and serve. For the monks, to embrace the Christian
creed and the mission of spreading it as interpreted by Brother Paul, and for the inmates, to adopt
the radical Islamic ravings of Sheik Abu al-Shahab in his quest to turn the world into a Muslim
caliphate.”
“That should come as no surprise,” Harden said. “Brainwashing has always been with us,
even before the Event. Each of us experienced it growing up. Though no one ever called it
brainwashing. We were taught by our parents, teachers, priests, and the media, what to believe,
what to think and from that, what to do. We were brainwashed to accept the American way of
life and all the creeds and beliefs that went with it. I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United
States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.”
“Yes, ma’am—and justice for all,” said Waddell with a nod.
Strock frowned as he thought about that, then asked, “Has anyone figured out what happened?
I mean, the scientists down there, in the shelter, what do they think? All those people like my
Ellie going blank, losing their minds, from out of nowhere.”
“Yes, the Military Command has gathered up a team of scientists and doctors to study it,”
Harden replied. “Find a cure. They occupy a whole building down there, gathering data,
brainstorming, analyzing brain cells of the dead, even experimenting with treatments. But so far,
as far as I know, there’s been no firm diagnosis, just a whole bunch of theories.”
“A whole bunch,” agreed Waddell.
“From a virus to cosmic rays,” Harden continued, “to mass hysteria, to some chink in the
fabric of space-time and everything in between. They tried equating it to mass Alzheimer’s, but
that theory didn’t quite fit. I doubt they’ll ever learned what happened or find a cure. And the
zombies will remain zombies whose minds have been wiped clean and have become blank
canvasses onto which we can imprint any belief or creed we want.”
 “Like Christianity, like that Brother Paul you mentioned tried to do,” Waddell said with a
wink. “Or Islam, like that Abu in the prison.”
“Or American beliefs down in the shelter, for that matter,” Harden added, drawing a solemn
nod from the Congressman.
After a moment, Strock asked, “Do they think it can happen again—wipe out the rest of us,
those who weren’t affected?”
“I doubt they know that either,” President Harden replied. “They can’t even answer why those
of us who didn’t become zombies or blanks were immune from it in the first place.”
Waddell pointed a finger toward the sky, and like a preacher quoting scripture, stated, “Then
the Lord rained down burning sulfur on Sodom and Gomorrah. Thus, he overthrew those cities
and the entire plain, destroying all those living in the cities.”
“Well, at least the Lord God missed some of us, this time,” Harden added.
“Now, I’ll have none of your blasphemy today, Your Eminence.”
“If Mister President was good enough for George Washington,” she replied, “Madame
President is good enough for me.”
“Very well, Madame President,” he said with a bow. “But I do think you’ll being overly
optimistic about the extent of God’s wrath.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if we don’t start finding some women for the General’s soldiers to start impregnating,
mankind isn’t going to last more than another generation or two.”
After a shrug, the President said, “We don’t know what’s going on with other groups of
survivors, or the ratio of men to women.”
“Well, hopefully, it’s better than here.”
President Harden and the Congressman fell silent as if contemplating the dire predicament of
the species.
Then, Strock asked, “So, how did you end up here, exiled to the Gulag?”
“It was Jedidiah who started it,” she said.
“Excuse me, Ma’am?”
“Well, you were the first one to raise serious objection to the continuation of martial law,
were you not?”
“Yes, I suppose I was,” he agreed with a contemplative nod. “And also the first to assert your
rightful claim to the Presidency.” He turned to Strock and continued, “So, yes, I broached the
subject with the General and his closest advisors. And when he essentially ignored me, like any
true southern gentlemen, I took offense and organized a protest.
“A group of us, including our President, and some of the others sitting out yonder, marched
on the admin building. We started shouting slogans about fascism and such. But the protest
didn’t last long. General Radley sent out a platoon of his soldiers—most of them converted
zombies, a kind of latter-day goon squad, complete with riot helmets and gear, and they took
care of things—squelched our chants, threw some of the more vociferous protesters, including us
two, into the brig. The President of the United State of America, mind you, tossed
unceremoniously into the damned brig!
“The next day, we were all facing bogus charges of sedition, terrorism, inciting to riot and
what-not. We were tried en masse before one of General Radley’s tribunals, found guilty, of
course, and sentenced to exile, up here in the gulag. Where, I suppose, we’ll remain.”
They fell quiet for a time, then President Harden commented, “Our protest was a wasted
effort, I fear. General Radley and his Military Command will never give up power. I fear
America will henceforth and forever be a dictatorship.” She let out a breath and smiled at them.
“If it wasn’t one already. But,” she brightened and said, “tell him about the messages, Jedediah.”
“Messages?” Strock asked.
The Congressman nodded and said, “Yes, messages. From Disney World.”
 Fifty-Seven
Mouseketeers

“Disney World?” Strock’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Congressman Waddell replied. “Actually, the Magic Kingdom.” He smiled.
“Messages from the very land where dreams come true. Or I should say, from below it. From the
utilidors.”
Holding his frown, Strock asked, “Utilidors?”
“Yes, the underground tunnels below the Magic Kingdom. See, the Military Command had
started searching for other pockets of survivors. Others they could bring into the fold. You know,
more soldiers, more women. Anyway, a month or so after the Event, after everyone had been
found and were brought down here from DC and nearby environs, including, as we said, a fairly
large number of zombies, the com center started receiving messages from groups of survivors
elsewhere, including a group who’d set up shop in the utilidors below the Magic Kingdom.”
“That’s what Walt Disney called them,” President Harden added. “Utilidors.”
“In that early time, General Radley still showed some deference to us lowly civilians,”
Waddell went on. “He had kept us somewhat in the loop back then, kept us apprised as to the
goings-on in the world above our heads. It was during that time when we learned that this Disney
group had grown to over three hundred inhabitants and that they were in relatively good shape,
that they had supplies and food to last them, well, decades, considering where they were.
“When you think about it,” he went on, “they’ve gathered together in a highly desirable
location. First of all, it’s quite defensible. It’s secluded from the wider world, protected on one
side by acres and acres of forests and swamps teeming with dangerous wildlife—snakes, and
panthers, wild boar, bugs, and of course, alligators—and on the other side, there are two man-
made lakes teaming with alligators to sail across. Plus, as we said, the utilidors provide them
with an underground shelter that, like the Mount Weather shelter below us, is also easy to
defend.”
Strock thought back to his occasional trips to Disney World when he was a kid. His parents
took him and his sister every other year. After high school, he’d not been back, and without kids
of his own, had no reason to visit after he and Ellie were married. Though he remembered the
seclusion of the place, he hadn’t known about the tunnels under the surface of the Magic
Kingdom.
“Walt Disney put them in,” Waddell explained. “The utilidors. They were his idea. He wanted
them so that cast members could freely move around the park without being seen by tourists. The
story goes that when he was at Disneyland, it jolted him to see a cast member dressed in a
spacesuit, assigned to Tomorrowland, strolling through Frontierland. Plus, it was a place where
garbage, supplies, uniforms, character suits—you know, for Mickey and Minnie Mouse—and
what-not whatever else, could be stored and generally hidden from public view. Myself and
some of my colleagues on the Hill got a private, celebrity tour of the tunnels during a conference
down at one of the Disney resorts a few years back.”
“You mean, the boondoggle down there,” said the President with a laugh. “Anyway,” she
went on, “after the Disney broadcasts were received, General Radley asked them if they wanted
to join us here at Mount Weather. They declined, telling him that the trip was too dangerous and
that anyway, they were holding their own right where they were. They also declined the
General’s offer to cart them up in one of the helicopters used to cart us from DC down to Mount
Weather, including Marine One, the one used for the President.”
“A Sikorsky Sea King,” interrupted Waddell. “Nice craft. Holds up to fifteen passengers. It’s
parked as we speak on a pad on the plateau above the east portal as we speak.”
“The Disney survivors declined that offer as well,” President Harden continued, “but General
Radley was persistent. He sent a platoon down there anyway, headed by Colonel Denton.”
“I met him,” Strock said. “Asked me a lot of questions about my stay at the Supermax, and
about Sheik al-Shahab.”
“Of course, he’s their intel guy,” said Harden. “Head of security.”
“Gestapo is more like it,” added Waddell.
“Anyway,” the President went on, “it took Colonel Denton and his men a couple days to fly
down there. He and thirteen soldiers. Landed on one of the parking lots and used several
inflatable boats to cross the lagoon to the Magic Kingdom. But what greeted them was a big
surprise—a platoon of armed and ready Disney survivors.”
“Mouseketeers,” Waddell said and laughed. “At least, that’s what we civilians like to call
them.”
“Yes, Mouseketeers,” Harden repeated with a smile. “And to be honest, I’d prefer to be down
there, with the Mouseketeers, than here, exiled and living under martial law, without freedom, or
the hope of freedom.”
She sighed, then continued, “But at the Magic Kingdom, at least from what’s been leaked out
by some of the com unit guys, they have established a kind of utopia—if such a thing is possible.
They believe in making life as comfortable and pleasant as possible for everyone and operate a
democratic form of government where everyone has a voice and say.”
“And not just the lobbyists,” added Waddell.
“No, not just the lobbyists,” she agreed with a smile. “I’ve also heard they’ve banned the old
religions down there—no more Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and the rest. Their ruling council
has deemed that organized religion seeds discord, as demonstrated by history. Instead, they
embrace a search for the true God, through spiritual and intellectual reflection, and scientific
study. They regularly meditate to become one with God and the Cosmos.”
“Sounds like some kind of hippie commune to me, these Mouseketeers,” Waddell said.
“Peace, love, sex, and rock n’ roll, not to mention psychedelic drugs.”
“No, they sound well-grounded,” the President disagreed. “And what they’re doing sounds
like a better way to live—the right way.” She nodded down. “Better than what’s going on here.”
“It does sound better,” commented Strock. “Utopian.”
“Sure, utopia always sounds better,” Congressman Waddell commented. “Until you’re living
it. Utopias always have a way of devolving into something bad. Hell on earth. Like communism
did.”
President Harden shrugged, then nodded. “Maybe this one will too, eventually. As they grow
in numbers, they might change, fall back into the old ways, the ways they were brought up on,
that led to Mount Weather and General Radley and his creed, and what’s going on in that
Supermax, and what was going on at that monastery. Or maybe they’ll teach their children that
the utopian beliefs and values are right and true, and doing things in furtherance of them will
become ingrained, passed on from generation to generation. Maybe it will really become the
place where dreams come true.”
The Congressman shrugged, evincing neither agreement or dispute, and they fell silent for a
time.
Finally, Strock asked, “So what’s to do up here? At the Gulag?”
“What’s to do? Wait,” replied Waddell. “That’s all we can do. With them watching our every
move.”
“Yes, wait,” added Harden. “Wait and hope for change.”
The congressman laughed to himself, then said, “Or, there is an alternative.” He looked at
President Harden and smiled. “We escape and somehow get to that Magic Kingdom of yours.
Hijack the helicopter sitting up there on the pad. Marine One. And fly us down there. Escape to
this utopia, to the land where dreams come true. Become Mouseketeers.”
 Fifty-Eight
Hit the Deck!

They finally led Strock over to the picnic tables in the rec yard and introduced him to the
other exiles. There were fourteen men and six women of various ages. The women all seemed
well beyond their child-bearing years.
Over the next several days, Strock got to know most of the other exiles during idle afternoons
around the picnic tables in the rec yard when the soldiers guarding them had no chores left for
the day. There was, for example, Anders Ormond, a strapping, six-foot-three black lawyer who’d
played tight end for Villanova before heading off to law school at Penn. After a stint in private
practice for a New York City firm, he’d taken an associate US attorney job in the Department of
Justice’s Civil Division in DC mostly handling claims under the Federal Tort Claims Act.
On the morning of the Plague—like everyone else who hadn’t lost their minds—he’d
awakened to an unsettling, suffocating silence with Akemi, his slender, surprisingly tall Japanese
girlfriend of three months, who worked as a statistical analyst for the Department of Defense,
sleeping like an angel next to him. After admiring her angelic expression for a time, he frowned
when, upon awakening her, she seemed catatonic, oblivious to him and everything else,
seemingly deaf, mute, and blind to the world.
Ormond stared forward, telling Strock his story of the events as they unfolded around him that
bizarre, impossible morning, a cold narrative of facts: how he’d left Akemi (meaning “bright
beauty” in Japanese, he said), and ventured outside his brownstone apartment only to find the
world in disarray. He’d been swallowed up in it, stumbling around for two hours, desperately
trying to make sense of what was happening. Of the guilt he now felt for not going back to get
Akemi after a group of soldiers—a rescue response team—looking for whomever they could find
who hadn’t lost their minds, found him ambling about, a survivor of whatever had happened.
They took him to a hotel downtown they called Staging Area 7. Only then did he beg them to let
him go and get Akemi and bring her there.
The soldier in charge, Sgt. Graves, who wore those same damned camouflage fatigues that
everyone else, even civilians—except for them, of course—now wore, flatly refused his request.
Instead, while he shouted for Akemi, two snarling soldiers dragged him into a school bus with
thirty other bleary-eyed, confused survivors for a bumpy, disagreeable ride into the hills of
Virginia. They rode an hour or so southwest of DC, to what he eventually learned was the Mount
Weather Emergency Operations Center where a new American government had been set up.
The other exiles had similar stories. The surreal realization of irrevocable change, as if a great,
evil spell had been cast over them and the whole of humanity. Stories of sorrowful separations
from loved ones—zombies now—spouses, partners, children, parents, brothers and sisters, and
best friends. Some had taken them along as they sought out what had gone wrong with the world,
and after being rescued, were separated from their zombie loved ones when General Radley
decided that only doctors under his command could try to rehabilitate them. The separation
didn’t matter as it didn’t take long for the realization to hit that their loved ones, like Ellie, were
no longer the people they had been and likely would never become again. Because of his time
trying to help Ellie recover, Strock understood that, and he also understood the depth of their
grief and despair. The person loved by them was lost, gone forever, just as surely if they had
died. Except in this case, the loved one had become a kind of walking corpse with all the
memories of their love and times together seemingly eternally forgotten.
Many of the exiles had been, like Anders Ormond, government bureaucrats, servants of the
people. Two had been private attorneys. One was a lobbyist for a labor union. Another a
common laborer. There were also three other congressmen, each of them junior colleagues of
Jedidiah Waddell, formerly representing districts in Texas, Wisconsin, and Florida, respectively,
most of whose constituents had turned into zombies and were likely dead.
After a couple days, Strock even got to know the names of some of the friendly-enough,
bored soldiers of the platoon that had been assigned guard-duty topside at the Gulag. They
seemed glad to have been released from the claustrophobic confines and drudgery of life below
ground in the shelter and appreciated the fresh air and blue sky that being topside made possible.
Despite their friendliness, it was also clear that the guards understood their duty to the Military
Command and would not hesitate to shoot to kill if need be. After all, the exiles had been
deemed seditionists by the ruling powers, posing a threat to the new American way of life.
The routine of the exiles was mind-numbing. Reveille was at 6:30 AM, announced by the
annoying single-note blare of a horn broadcast from a speaker up in the ceiling of the Quonset
hut. Upon awakening, the exiles washed in a common shower off the latrine near the front of the
hut. The women were allowed to shower first, then the men.
At seven each morning, after showering and putting on their plain, gray jumpsuits, the
soldiers marched the loose assemblage of exiles across the street to an abandoned red-brick
building whose lobby had been transformed into a kind of mess hall furnished with three long
tables and chairs. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were prepared in the kitchen of the main shelter’s
mess hall and transported topside by electric cart.
After breakfast, the exiles were divided into small groups and assigned various menial and
seemingly useless chores, such as pulling weeds growing around the inside of perimeter fences
or out of holes in the asphalt parking lots, or washing electric carts, Humvees, or other vehicles
used topside to transport people and things. It was busy work meant to tire out the exiles and
keep them occupied instead of idling around and talking revolution. But there was never enough
to do and usually by mid-afternoon, the soldiers brought the crews of exiles back to lull and
gossip in the Quonset hut or in the rec yard until they were marched across the street at around
6:00 to the makeshift mess hall for dinner.
After dinner, they were taken back to the hut and either continued their discourses or read
books brought back by early sorties from local libraries to provide the Mount Weather
population with reading material to kill the often long, tedious hours that occasioned surviving
the end of the world in an underground shelter. Strock refrained from reading anything as it
served only to remind him how much he missed the civilization, though flawed in many respects,
that humanity had built before the Plague struck.

Late one afternoon during the second week of Strock’s exile, while sitting among some of his
fellow exiles at one of the picnic tables in the rec yard, he inquired why the Military Command
hadn’t brought everyone up from the shelter into the light of day, to start building a new
American society above ground.
“The symbolism is wonderful, no?” said Oscar Rivera, the congressman from Texas. “They
keep the people buried. Above-ground, it is no good. Si?”
 Some of the exiles shrugged not quite getting the Congressman’s comment.
“Oh, so your theory is,” Anders Ormond replied, “they keep them down there to prevent them
from seeing the light of day, the sky, breathing fresh air. From waking up to the freedom all that
entails. To remember the promise of America as it used to be. Keeping them in the shelter keeps
them down, symbolically and practically, under it all, in pure survival mode.”
No one responded to that until President Harden said, “Either that or there’s a simpler
explanation. They’re afraid. It’s safe down there. And there’s food and water enough for fifty
years. Why come up and risk it all?”
“Risk it from whom?” one of the women asked. “Who’s to be afraid of? Who’s the
competition.”
The President nodded at Strock and said, “The people he escaped from—right, Franklin? The
Sheik and the inmate zombies he’s brainwashed to his creed.”
“Why not reach out to them?” asked the Congressman from Wisconsin, Arthur Johnson, a
bright, round-faced fellow with a pudgy frame, no older than thirty. He’d been in a tough race for
his second term when the Plague struck. “Talk to them. Bring our needs and common interests to
the table. See if we can come up with a plan for our mutual survival.”
“Spoken like a true Democrat,” Congressman Waddell chimed in. “Naïve to the core.”
“We’re not on the floor of Congress now,” Congressman Johnson shot back.
“Boys, boys,” laughed President Harden.
Some distance away, along the east side of the facility near the entrance, there was a crack
followed by an explosion, then smoke billowing up. Everyone jumped, tensed. The soldiers
turned that way.
“What the hell was that?” asked Congressman Waddell.
A moment later, there was a whining, whirling in the sky above them. As they looked up, one
of the soldiers outside the rec yard fence called out, “Incoming! Hit the deck! Hit the fucking
deck!”
 Fifty-Nine
Attack

A burst of rockets buzzed from the sky and exploded randomly inside the facility, sending
shards of shrapnel in every direction. Several buildings spewed brick, mortar, and dust, and the
roads and asphalt parking lots between them were soon pock-marked with bomb craters and
obstructed by debris.
Strock laid face down on the grass near a picnic table until the rocket attack appeared to be
over. The rec area had been spared, but a shroud of smoke heavy with sulfur and oil had spread
across the facility making it difficult to breathe and see. Sitting up, he squinted through the haze
and saw a couple of the exiles sitting as well. A few others were on their feet, milling about
trying to figure out what was happening. A couple of them who had lain across President Harden
helped her to her feet. Strock had no idea, nor likely did anyone else, who would become
President of the United States should she be killed.
From outside the rec yard fence, Strock heard harried shouts from the confused and frightened
soldiers. From near the front entrance gate came the unmistakable pop, pop, pop of rifle fire.
After the disorienting rocket assault, a concerted ground offensive had been launched by
whomever was behind the attack on the facility. Strock immediately suspected that Sheik Abu al-
Shahab had determined the location of Mount Weather and was finally beginning the violent
establishment of his crazed worldwide Islamic caliphate. Perhaps Flynn had revealed more in his
torture sessions than he had remembered or let on. Yet again, it had not been a secret that Mount
Weather was designated as the place where America would set up shop should something like
the Mind Plague strike.
Now standing, President Harden surveyed the rec yard. Strock and everyone else gathered
around her while the continuous crack of firefights could be heard between the above-ground
forces of Mount Weather and the invaders.
“Look, friends,” the President said, speaking as loud as she could above the shouts and
screams and gunfire. “We have to make a run for it. I doubt General Radley will risk sending up
reinforcements. Not right away, anyway. He’ll opt, as he rightly should, to retain his superior
defensive position and protect the shelter from breach at all costs.” She sighed, calmly gathering
her thoughts, acting like the commander-in-chief she was supposed to be. “And that means we
have to make a run for it.”
“Run for it where?” someone asked from out of the smoky haze.
“To the helo pad,” she replied. She looked around and found someone. “Jackson, you can fly,
right? You’re a pilot. For Delta?”
Bruce Jackson was a wiry, good-looking man in his late fifties who kept to himself for the
most part, seeming intent to listen to others and gauge the situation. He’d been a Navy pilot for
eight years before flying for Delta the last thirty years. He’d recently retired and had flown from
Atlanta to DC with his wife, and they’d been staying at a ritzy downtown hotel when the Plague
struck. She’d become a blank, while he’d kept his mind. During Strock’s ten days among the
exiles, Jackson had never discussed how he’d lost track of his wife that morning while he was
being rescued and transported to Mount Weather.
 “Yes, I’m a pilot,” Jackson said. He cocked his head and looked bemused, adding, “But it’s
been years since I’ve flown a helicopter, since my Navy days. I flew search-and-rescue missions
from the Naval Air Station at Key West. Sikorsky SH-60s, pretty much like the bird up on the
pad.”
“It is quite definitely a Sikorsky,” confirmed Congressman Waddell. “Marine One, the
Presidential helicopter.”
“That it is,” Jackson said with a nod. He turned to the President and said, “Sure, I can fly it.”
In the distance, a sudden loud flurry of gunfire, and the shouts and death screams of soldiers
momentarily silenced him and the others. Finally, he turned back and looked into the faces of the
exiles around him as if counting them, then turned again to the President and said, “But it won’t
take all of us. A bird like that holds fifteen, tops, and I’d prefer flying lighter.”
Someone asked, “Well, who gets to go? There’s twenty-one of us.”
“Certainly, the President is going,” Congressman Waddell said. “The Union must live on.”
“Then, who else?”
“The President should determine that,” Congressman Waddell suggested.
“There’s no time to decide this here,” President Harden replied. “We have to get going and
out to the pad.”
“Right,” someone said, and they all murmured in agreement.
“By the way,” the pilot, Jackson, asked, “Once up in the air, where are we flying?”
“Florida,” she said. “To Disney World.”
 Sixty
The Fall of America

President Harden led them from the rec yard into the Quonset hut, down the aisle between the
bunks, through the lobby and out the front door. The soldiers guarding the exiles had run off to
join the fight or retreated to the east portal hoping to escape the feared oncoming slaughter
underground, only to be rebuffed by the sentries who refused, upon orders, to open the entrance
door.
After exiting the hut, the exiles followed Harden’s quickened pace as she turned left and
strode down the road leading to the east portal. They avoided the entrance road where stray
soldiers were milling about, still hoping for the gate to swing open and growing increasingly
dispirited that it remained solidly shut. Hunkering down, the exiles circled around it and climbed
the hill above the portal.
Fifty yards away on the plateau beyond the portal sat Marine One, the long, sleek Sikorsky
helicopter on the round asphalt landing pad marked with a yellow-striped bull’s eye. The lower
two-thirds of the fuselage of the Sikorsky was army green, topped with a white crown, while
emblazoned along both sides was “United States of America.”
A barrage of gunfire erupted too close for comfort, punctuated by yet more battle cries and
death screams from the soldiers on each side of the fray. It was clear that the battle was almost
upon them. Time was of the essence.
The twenty-one exiles panted, and some of them leaned over with their hands on their thighs,
after they had approached and gazed up at the Sikorsky.
“I’ll get it up and running,” said Jackson. He turned to President Harden and said, “I advise
you take no more than ten.” Then, he moved off toward the helicopter and clambered up into the
cockpit of the aircraft.
As the engines roared to life and the single blade started whirling above them, Anders
Ormond said, “Well, who goes, who stays? Which ten of us?”
“Ma’am, you must choose,” stated Congressman Waddell.
“There has to be another way,” she objected.
“You are Commander-in-Chief of the United States of America,” the Congressman argued. “It
is your duty to make the selections, and our duty to obey.”
She nodded quickly, looked about, and no one objected. After a moment, she pointed out ten
expectant faces. After each new exile was selected, he or she dutifully trotted to the entrance
door in the middle of the fuselage of Marine One and clambered inside. The pilot, Jackson, was
soon back there guiding them where to sit and how to strap in.
Among the ten selected by the President were Congressman Waddell and his three House
colleagues, and several other bureaucrats, including three women, and Anders Ormond. Strock
was among those left behind. Over the white noise of the idling helicopter preparing to take off,
President Harden shouted, “I’m deeply sorry, my friends. Good luck and Godspeed to each and
every one of you. May we see you at the Magic Kingdom.”
She abruptly turned and with Congressman Waddell clutching her right elbow, they strode
off, and Jackson helped them into Marine One. The remaining eleven exiles, including Strock,
crept back from the helicopter pad and watched as Marine One powered up to a shrill roar as it
readied for lift-off.
“Now what?” someone shouted.
One of the others, a fortyish man with a perpetually worried frown whose name or former
position in life Strock could not recall, stated the obvious. “We hop the fence and run for it. Head
south, to Disney World.”
“Disney World’s a long way,” said a hard-looking, heavy-set, husky-voiced woman in her late
sixties. Strock recalled that she had been a secretary for some hotshot former politician turned
lobbyist. He also recalled that she smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and had likely not exercised
in years, if ever.
Marine One gently lifted off the helicopter pad. It hovered overhead before climbing steadily
and slowly up into the sky above them. The remaining exiles, including Strock, had to buttress
themselves against the buffeting wind generated by the helicopter’s sudden ascent.
“There she goes!” someone shouted as the helicopter hovered a moment, then finally jerked
south above the tree-tops of the forest beyond Mount Weather.
An instant later, there was a low, whistling from somewhere along the area around them. A
second after that, Marine One exploded in mid-air in a blast as bright as the sun, and a
thunderclap came from where the helicopter had just been. Pieces of charred fuselage suddenly
came tumbling down in flames and crashed on the ground fifty yards from them. Instinctively,
the exiles left behind, including Strock, bent over and covered their heads. Seconds later, it was
over, and they were standing up looking beyond the perimeter at the fire and trail of thick, black
smoke billowing up above the tree-tops.
“What the hell happened?” someone asked, seeming close to tears.
Some of the other exiles whimpered.
After a time, Strock said emptily, “What happened? The fall of America.”
 Sixty-One
Where Dreams Come True

“Now what?” someone asked from within the haze of acrid smoke.
“We hafta run,” someone else replied. “They’re coming.”
Indeed, the fighting appeared to have edged ever closer.
“Where?”
“There,” Strock shouted, pointing to the ten-foot-high fence topped by barbed wire. “Get over
the fence. Head south, like the President said, to Disney World.”
Another of the remaining exiles said, “So, let’s go.”
Strock led the way to the fence about fifty yards south of the helicopter pad. At the fence, he
and the others stared up at the coil of barbed wire strung along the top. Many of the exiles had
been sedentary bureaucrats who’d spent eight or more hours a day for the last several years
sitting at a desk staring at a computer screen in some stuffy office in DC. They were overweight
and out-of-shape, and the prospect of pulling themselves up the tall, chain-link fence and then
over a roll of barbed wire seemed a hopeless and painful prospect.
Three of the exiles immediately refused to make the effort. They’d take their chances inside,
hide or something from the invaders. But after a few tense minutes, Strock convinced them that
staying behind meant certain death, and promised that he and the others would help them get
over the fence and barbed wire.
Strock and a couple of the other men stripped off their jumpsuits and used them to cover the
barbed wire along the top of the fence. After some minutes of pushing and pulling and cries of
encouragement, with the battle erupting around them, somehow all ten of the remaining exiles
made it over the fence to the other side without a single serious injury.
“Where to now?” someone asked.
“Into the woods, get clear of here,” Strock said, clearly leading them now. “We find a town
where we can get some vehicles and provisions—you know, food and drink, then hit the road
and hope for the best.”
With nods from some and grumblings from others, Strock’s plan was adopted. He nodded
toward the woods and said, “This way’s as good as any.” Off he strode with the others at his
heels.
But as they approached the first stand of trees and were about to enter the cover of the thick
forest surrounding Mount Weather, Strock heard the pop, pop, pop of rifle fire up close, directly
behind them. He glanced back and saw bodies falling. Strock soon realized that a platoon of
inmate blanks from the Supermax, undoubtedly led by a disciple of Sheik Abu al-Shahab, had
come up and spotted them from somewhere along the outside of the perimeter fence and were
methodically picking them off with their AK-47s.
Only Strock made it into the woods.

Strock sprinted into the forest without looking back, careful not to step into a rut or trip over a
root and fall and break an ankle. After a time, he stopped and leaned over behind a tree, panting.
Looking back at Mount Weather, he decided that the Supermax patrol had not followed him.
After a few minutes, he caught his breath and reclaimed his resolve. He pushed himself off the
tree and started trotting again away from Mount Weather. His plan hadn’t changed. He’d head
south, hoping that the remnants of civilization—a road leading to some rural town—wasn’t too
far off.
After ten minutes, Strock emerged from the trees onto a state highway that had been cut
between the desolate hilly forests of eastern Virginia. He continued along the shoulder for a time
before coming to a sign telling him that he was on Route 619. After another fifteen minutes, he
found himself wandering into the town of Upperville. Like many of the other small towns Strock
had come across, Upperville was eerily silent, a deserted place at the what seemed the end of the
world. Now a year after the Mind Plague had struck, the sidewalks of its Main Street and
connecting business and residential roads were littered with ugly, grinning skeletons while grass
and weeds had started their inexorable march to reclaim them for Nature.
It appeared that the town hadn’t been found and ravaged by Plague survivors. No slave gangs
or small tribes had come through to raid the lone, small supermarket on Main Street just past
Central Avenue, or any of the other mom-and-pop stores and restaurants in old buildings along
it, or the homes dotting its side streets.
Strock ventured into a house occupied by the decomposed bodies of yet another unfortunate
family of blanks who had never figured out how to get out of bed and had starved to death. It did
not take him long to find the keys to a Ford Edge SUV parked in the driveway. It took him an
hour or so to find a battery charger in the mom-and-pop hardware store on Main Street. After
charging the Edge, to his relief, it roared to life. He then drove it to the supermarket and packed
the rear compartment with water bottles, cans of food, cereal boxes, Slim Jims, and other
supplies. There was a Walmart just outside the edge of town from which he grabbed a couple of
rifles and some ammunition. He also took a map of Virginia and the eastern US and decided that
it would be best to hit the road for two, three hours until dark, taking back roads and avoiding the
interstates.
Using the maps, he traced what seemed like a suitable route to his destination for the night:
Lynchburg, Virginia. Once there, like before, he’d find a home to break into and try and get a
good night’s sleep among the ghosts of those poor souls whose minds had been erased by the
Mind Plague and who had starved to death in their beds.
With the sunrise, he’d awaken and get going. His plan was to drive the remaining fifteen
hours, straight down to the Magic Kingdom, the place where, he hoped, dreams come true.
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Also from Digital Fiction
 About the Author
Vincent L. Scarsella has eight published novels to his credit, including the "The Anonymous
Man," "Still Anonymous," and "Lawyers Gone Bad," "Personal Injuries," and "Winning Is
Everything," of the Lawyers Gone Bad Series; Books 1 and 2 of a young adult fantasy series, Psi
Wars!; and lastly, “The Messiah,” about the coming of a modern Jesus. He has also published a
novella, “Within A Dream,” and a crime short story collection, “Unusual Suspects.” These
works are available on Amazon.com.
Numerous of Scarsella’s short stories have appeared in print magazines, anthologies, and in
online zines. His short story, "The Cards of Unknown Players," was nominated for the Pushcart
Prize.
Scarsella’s play, “Hate Crime,” about race relations in the context of a legal thriller, was
performed in Buffalo on September 13, 2015 and has been released as a film by the streaming
service, SkuVu TV.com. “Hate Crime” is set to be staged by the Cause Theatre at the College of
Southern Maryland from March 14-16, 2019. “The Penitent,” about the Catholic Church child
molestation scandal, was a finalist in the June 2015 Watermelon One-Act Play Festival
sponsored by St. Mary’s College of Maryland and his play, “The Cards of Unknown Players,” is
a participant in the 2019 Festival.
Scarsella retired in September 2010 after a long career with the State of New York in the
Buffalo area as a prosecutor, attorney disciplinary counsel, and tax attorney and now resides with
his wife, Rosanne, in Venice, Florida. He has three children and six grandchildren.
 Copyright
Mind Plague
Written by Vincent L. Scarsella
Executive Editor: Michael A. Wills

This story is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, locations, and events portrayed in this story are either the product
of the author’s imagination, fictitious, or used fictitiously. No claim to the trademark, copyright, or intellectual property of any
identifiable company, organization, product, or public name is made. Any character resembling an actual person, living or dead,
would be coincidental and quite remarkable.

Book Title. Copyright © 2019 by Vincent L. Scarsella. This story and all characters, settings, and other unique features or
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