The Road to Emmaus XI

"All I've got is rumors," Hal Kermin said, "Some people escaped Virginia." They sat together in a crowded coffee bar inside the King of Prussia Mall.

"I've got access to a press," Evan Gherrity said, "There's five, maybe six guys willing to start around two. If we trickled in during the day, maybe." He crossed is legs. "I don't know."

"No," Hal said, "I'm watched. You got a deck of cards at home?"

"Somewhere," Evan answered.

"Grab our stuff and throw it away," Hal said, "Pocket what's under my napkin. Stick it in the deck of cards. Tell your guys to be ready. Pick the smartest one of the bunch, one good with numbers. Get the cards to him without meeting. Never say anything on the phone."

Evan looked down at his cup.

"You'll figure something out," Hal said, "Do what I say and sit back down. We'll make some small talk, then go run two quick errands. Go home, load the deck and figure it out."

Evan inhaled. Hal stared. Evan got up, grabbed the trash and walked to the bin. Under Hal's napkin was a business card. Without looking, he wiped his hands on the napkin, reached into his pocket and took out his keys. The business card dropped in his pocket. He fiddled with his keys. He walked back to the table and sat.

"You won't hear from me until this is all over," Hal said. "Still planning that evacuation to Denver?" Evan nodded. He thought of his wife and kids. He knew Hal well enough to take his word on this. "Yeah," Hal said, "Probably best. Smart. Everyone needs to be smart to stay safe. I just don't feel safe here anymore. Neither should you. Denver will be safer, but the whole world's gone nuts. You know what I do when things get nuts?" Hal asked.

"What?" Evan asked.

"I go somewhere nice, like Denver. I take a break from the wife and kids and go camping. I don't even bring a phone." Hal said. "Come to think of it, I know a guy out there who can work on your house while you get away for a while. You're wife can relax. He's a good guy. I'd trust him to work on my house. My kids liked him too."

Evan stood up. "Let him know the house needs work. It's good to have contractors you know."

"Don't shake hands," Hal said, "Go run your errands. I'll have my handy man check out the house even before you get there."

"Thanks," Evan said. Hal watched him walk away. They hadn't fooled anyone, he knew, but there was a chance the truth would get out of Pennsylvania. One good thing about rumors, he thought, is that they spread like a virus.

The Road to Emmaus X

Erin couldn't see the face. The room wavered. The colors changed.

He spoke, "Do you know where you are?" She shook her head. "Better that way. You're as safe as you're ever going to be."

"I'm sick," she said.

"You're drugged," he said. "Not that it matters. You'll be getting worse and worse for eight hours. It will feel like years. I will tell you now, I can tranquilize you, but not until I'm sure you saw nothing."

"Saw?" she slurred.

"You were at home when Hennen's exploded," he said. "You were cooking a meal. You saw the broadcast and were horrified. You saw it on the news. The stress has confused your mind."

"No," she said.

"Yes," he said, "Say yes."

"I don't know," she said.

"Do you know what this is?" he askeed, and showed her a large needle like instrument. "This it an extension of what we're going to do to you. The needle will hurt, and then you will feel your skin burn. You will have a fever, carefully monitored. Then, you will return to the hospital and be committed to a psyche ward for an evaluation. The doctors already know to committ you. You will continue to be drugged, unable to reason. You will be kept insane and hidden. You will disappear."

"You kill me?" she asked.

"Oh no," he said. "You'll suffer with the memories from here and from the imagined bombing. It did not happen. Say it did not happen. Believe it did not happen. You saw it on the news. I will tranquilize you and you will return to an outpatient care to be monitored. Break your promise and we take you here again."

"Where am I?" she asked.

"A bad place that doesn't exist," he said. "It can go away. It can. You were mistaken. Maybe you had a bad reaction to the news and thought you were there. Yes?"

"I saw it," she said. The needle went in her stomach and it hurt. The burning started.

"Rethink that," he said. She cried out. "You're an office worker. You can be a patriot by helping us to keep our country safe by denying all this. You had a post traumatic event. Believe it."

"Why? Why?" she asked.

"The world is under assault," he said. "Many will die if you continue giving information."

"Where's the Agent I saw?" she asked.

"I'm here," a voice said. It sounded like Agent Dempsey. "I'm sorry, but we had to do this. We have to."

"I," she said, "I burn... help."

"Put her to sleep for now," the man said. She drifted asleep.

The Road to Emmaus IX

"I'm here to read a statement from our beloved leader," Mauly Peppers said. "I will read this statement, and then, I will return to my home in Trenton, New Jersey. I will be followed, of course, by agents from every enemy we have, and that's quite a few people." She smiled.

"But we did not choose America as our enemy," she continued, "Nor did we choose the European Union or Israel. They chose to fight us. We wanted nothing from them. We did not choose the nations of Islam as our enemy. They choose to bomb us, kill us, fly planes into our building, behead our journalists and they did this in the name of a God which our faiths share. That Gos is YHVH, the God of Abraham, the God of Moses, the God Irsrael, the God of Mohamed. If they claim there are no innocents, then so be it. All are combatants."

"The Great Leader says," she looked down to a paper, "Dear friends and adherents of all religions. The Lord Our God has declared war on all nations and peoples that..."

Jacob turned off the TV.

"Uh, was watching that," Murphy said.

"Right," Jake said, "You were. No more of it for now." Murphy pressed the button on the remote. Mauly Peppers appeared, still reading.

"...the blood of the innocent will be shed for all so that..." The television shut off again.

"Why let me have the remote if your going to do that?" Murphy barked. The remote, he noticed, disappeared.

"Better?" Jake asked.

"The illusion of control," Murphy mused, "Or the certainty of predestination?"

"There are no illusions," Jacob said, "Only lack of perception."

"Thanks, Obi Wan," Murphy said.

"More Yoda-esque I'd say," Jake replied.

"Then we're screwed," Murphy said.

"Who is 'we'," Jake said.

"My God, My God. Why have you forsaken me?" Murphy cried out. Jacob laughed.

"Okay," Jake said, "You're calling for my help?"

"Don't make me ask," Murphy said.

"Rule 1, I don't play with guns," Jake said. "Rule 2, The Primary Directive," He smiled, "We cannot directly interfere or influence. There's some wiggle room there, of course."

"Picard held pretty straight to it," Murphy stroked his goatee. "Kirk. More like Kirk?"

"A happy medium," Jake replied. "But I'm not doing all the work. You still have your robes?"

"Yeah, but..." Murphy said.

"Well, presto," Jake waved his off-hand at him, "You're a Monk again. You remember your duties. And slow up on the booze."

"So," Murphy sat forward, "What do we do first?"

"We're off to see the Wizard," Jake said and they both smiled.

The Road toEmmaus VIII

"Erin," a voice said, "I'm Special Agent Dempsey. I need to ask you some questions."

"I've told you everything I can," she said.

"I'm with the FBI," he explained. "I know you've probably told everything to a lot of different people. Can you do something for me?"

She hesitated.

"I'm an expert on Domestic Terrorism," he continued. "The other people you spoke with gave me your report. I've read it. It's very informative. Could you try to describe from the minute before the explosion up until the ambulance arrived?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "Like I told Sherrif Marques, I was checking out. Just a few supplies for a nice dinner. A man walked in. I barely saw him. I don't know if he was carrying a bomb."

"He wasn't," Dempsey said.

"He wasn't?" she asked.

"No," he said. "This wasn't the type of bomb you could carry. The explosion was too large. It wasn't a nuclear device. Let's say that we know where the bomb went off, how it was detonated, and from where."

"Oh," she said.

"Did you see anyone sitting in a running vehicle on a cell phone on your way out?" he asked.

"No," she said, "I was looking at my groceries and loading my car."

"How often do you shop at Hennen's?" he asked.

"Once or twice a week," she said.

"What sections did you go to?" he asked.

"I always go to produce," she said, "Sometimes the butcher. Sometimes the Deli counter. I go to quite a few places in there. But I'm usually there for fresh vegetables. They had the best."

"You make your sauce from scratch, I hear," he said.

"I'm a bit compulsive about it," she admitted with a laugh.

"If I told you that you were three feet from the bomb, would that help your memory?" he asked. "We found bits of a crate there. Did you see a crate?"

"There's always crates," she said.

"Who brings them out?" he asked.

"They bring the in the front door," she said. "It's a local farm. Brayton's. I saw a Brayton's truck when I got out of my car. The tomatoes were really fresh that day."

"How long were you in the market?" he asked.

"Half an hour, tops," she said.

"Now," he said, "If you stop for a moment and think about the truck and the workers, did you see any crates being delivered? Make sure your certain either way."

"No," she said, "No. I think they were done."

"Did you know any of the empyees or owners of the store?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Do you know anyone connected to Brayton Farms?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Okay, Erin," he said, "I know this has been rough on you. Let me explain what's going to happen. You are going to receive a summons to Federal Court. I want to make things safe for you. That means you have to trust me. We're going to move you. We have doctors to continue your treatment, but we have to get you somewhere safe. Are there people you want to call to let them know?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll need to..."

"You can't," he said. "We will contact them for you. We know who and how. No one can know where we take you. They can't even be told we have you for a few days. Wait. Stop and think. They'll worry, but if we do it any other way, you're going to be killed."

Erin stopped breathing.

"In about five minutes there will be a group of agents taking you away from here. They won't speak to you," he paused. "I've read your chart. I need an honest answer. Are you fully blind?"

Erin tried not to sob. It burned her eyes. "I need to know," he said. "If you can see anything we have to blindfold you."

"Oh," she sighed. She shook.

"Erin?" he prompted.

"I'm blind," she said. The words came out bent and high pitched.

"I'm going to leave," he said, "but I will be at your new place when you get there. I'm sorry."

She cried. Her eyes burned like hell.

The Road to Emmaus: VII

The center aisle of St. Joseph's Cathedral caught sunlight. It followed the sun, east to west. During winter in the temperate mid-latitudes of the northern hemisphere, the sun traced a holy arch at forty five degrees from the southern horizon. It poked through the windows, and streaks of pure full spectrum light hit the burgundy carpet.

A tiny shuddering shadow of a bird in flight caught Simon's attention. Distracted, he lost his place. He glanced at his notepad. You are in Church at your father's funeral, it read. Emotion failed to register. He knew what a father was and what a church was. He understood the concept of funerals. Father? Further up the page ir read, you have lost your memory. I wrote this to remind you. There was further explanation. Whenever you stop concentrating, you forget most of what just happened.

The woman next to him put a hand on his arm, leaned in a whispered, "I'm your wife. I wrote that. Concentrate for as long as you can."

"How long does this usually last?" He asked.

"Your record is five straight minutes of remembering," she said, pursed her lips, continued, "The memory thing is permanent. But, you've come a long way. Concentrate on the funeral."

"But," he said.

"Not now," she said. He relaxed and fell into concentration. Something about the way she said it was so convincing, it challenged him.

"I'm going to concentrate this whole damn funeral," he said, "You'll see."

"No damn in church, hon," she said. "We'll see. Get to it."

Concentration meant Simon needed to catalogue details. Always start with the weather, he told himself. A strategy formed in his mind. The whether established the setting and lead to descriptive detail and mood. The sun shone, but they cried for a dead man. His father. His unknown father. My father is dead.

He lost his place.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Seven minutes," he said. "I have a life after all."

"It's taken you two years to break your old record," she said, "Congratulations. Now concentrate." His mind relaxed and continued cateloguing details. The sun shone. His father died. Green, the colour of nature in spring, did not exist in winter. People cried a lot at funerals.

"What's your name?" He asked her.

"Emily," she said. He liked Emily. Maybe they would have sex later. He couldn't remmber if they ever had. "Concentrate," she whispered, but he knew with certainty that this train of thought would distract him.

He lost his place. Thirty seconds into his next recall, he lost his place again. Emily replaced the note pad with another notepad. He looked at it, bemused at the daring of this stranger passing him notes in church. You've lost your memory. I am your wife. Relax and accept it for now. He sighed relief.

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"I want to write a novel," he said at brunch.

"You were a writer," she humored him, "Do you think you could without remmbering? How?"

"I don't know," he frowned. "At least let me keep a diary. One decent notebook."

She thought about it and waited for him to lose his place and forget the idea. He stared at her a long time. I want to write, he thought over and over. "Fine," she said. "I'll get a notebook and I'll come up with a plan."

"One thing," he said, "Never look in it."

"How would you know?" She smiled.

"Just promise," he pleaded.

"You got it. I promise," she said. It was good enough.

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This is not your diary. It's a secret novel. Turn the page to the outline and look for the checkmark where you left off. Find the next blank page and continue from there. She doesn't know, but you can concentrate up to an hour while doing this. Try not to get distracted by aimless thoughts. If you do, come back to this page, if you haven't already.

Satisfied that his plan would work, he tucked the notebook under his mattress. There would be all sorts of tibits in the novel. Anecdotes that explained the current world, and why he needed to accept it. Secrets thoughts and insights. Her habits and sexual deviencies. It would be...


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He read a passage:

"You tore the damn thing up and this is a sort of part 2. Some of it's edits and rewrites, someoriginal pages. Somedays we leave you a note to tidy up and closely bind in. We have yet to come to a decisions for when to prerest it for publicathin, but you'll have a long stretch of days doing the rewrite. Some of us are more on the ball than others. Hopefully, you're the initiative taking type that will begin to call a vote on when we should consider the whole thing done.

One of us wrote recently after sex with the woman. I hesitate to mention the location of that passage. Many of us disappear shorty after with a quick note, like "My turn" or "Hope it wasn't two minutes ago." You, being the endeaverring sort who's still reading, ablbeit at the mere drop of the work fuck I probably have kept only one of the three of you I can talk seriously too."

He'd never encountered this bebore. They all had secret friends within the book and subtle memories of them. This vice was new. Maybe he was one of the reknown Old Leaders from when the book was founded. He could be that louse, the Savoir or one of his followers.

They all relied on unverified reports of when his memory had been injured. Some felt he was 100 years old or more. These were immature assumtions. Best estimates had him between 20 and 50. Emily has 33 or 34, depending on who you asked and what they remebered. Why waste the good years writing a novel?

"Emily?" he called.