Desolation

Mostly they walked, and always Darla walked with her “buddy” Joselin. This choice wasn’t hers either, but if she had to be buddied up with someone, Joselin wasn’t bad. She was an odd mix of races, an “Italian-African American-Indian” as she would tell anyone who asked. Unfortunately for her, she had been cursed with her father’s pear-shaped body and beefy legs, her momma’s skinny chest, and her grandfather’s bulbous nose. Still, she had an infectious laugh that no one could resist. When Darla tried to not join in, Joselin would tell her, “Darla, you know better, resistance is futile,” quoting from their favorite show, Star Trek. After so many days on the road, they were fast becoming good friends in spite of Joselin’s absolute dedication to the Teacher. Because of that Darla was careful of what she said, never giving Joselin her complete trust. Darla also never forgot her ultimate goal of breaking free of the Teacher with Danny, when the time was right.

The two-thousand-plus group of people came to a halt, and Darla and Joselin were near the rear.

“Why do you suppose we stopped?” The question was purely rhetorical; she knew that Joselin knew no more than she herself did.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure glad. My feet feel like I’m walking on hot coals.”

After a few minutes, Franklin, the big guy who had “helped” Darla back to her tent that evening inside the teacher’s bedroom, was jogging up to them. “You two follow me,” he barked, then pivoted and jogged back the way he had come. Darla and Joselin followed in lock-step, in spite of their tired feet. They stopped at an entrance road off the small rural highway they had been traveling on. There were congregated almost two hundred arm-banded men and women, who made up God’s Army. Thomas, their leader, spoke to them. “All right, we shouldn’t have much resistance in this town. I want all of you”—he pointed toward Darla and about twenty others—“to stay here and watch the roads. The rest of us will march down the main road as a show of strength.”

With that, Thomas and the larger group advanced down the rural blacktop, the semi-rhythmic plomp-plomp-plomp of their boots—on asphalt that until a few days ago had seen only the occasional tires of a tourist’s vehicle or a farmer’s pickup—announcing their approach to any who heard. Their next conquest was to be the little town of Fossil Ridge.

24. Disconnected

Rocky Point, Mexico

As Sally read the journal, her smile grew wider and brighter, her shoulders squared but relaxed. This find was exciting! Its words spoke directly to her. She stopped and reexamined the 150-year-old leather-bound journal in her hands, handling it as if it would turn to dust with one touch; it was made of hardier stuff. Not simply some old book, this journal offered something greater to all of them: salvation. And this whole time it had been hiding in plain sight.

She considered the rush of excitement she felt right now, a feeling she hadn’t experienced since… She peered up to the ceiling of Max’s secret office, searching for that time, just before the Event, when she had found out what was about to hit the world.

She had been out of her element since the Event. She probably dealt with the loss of technology the worst compared to most people. For the last few years, she had never been disconnected from the Internet, other than for the few short hours she dedicated to sleep. Even when she was offline, she still read saved articles or books on her tablet, or watched her cable TV. Her devices spoke to her sleepy subconscious, pinging their messages each night. Whether by her laptop, desktop, tablet, or smartphone, Sally had always been connected and always talking to people around the globe. Only a few weeks ago, her Twitter account told her that she had sent at least a hundred thousand tweets. This was funny since she never even liked telling people her thoughts in a meager hundred and forty characters; she was far too verbose in her writing. She had over two million Google Plus followers, and tens of thousands of Facebook friends. Every day, she received no fewer than five hundred emails, two hundred texts, and at least one thousand notifications from her devices that she was being messaged, emailed, called, or mentioned. Then the Event happened and her life stopped.

She told herself, I have to go cold turkey. These words felt funny to someone who never drank or did drugs, but to her being connected was every bit as much an addiction as drugs or alcohol would be for others. She needed the Internet, and texting, and phone calls. And it wasn’t just personal interconnections, it was her business.