The Final Day (After, #3)(120)

“Thanks for getting me hooked on these damn things again,” Bob said.

“Sorry, sir.”

“I might have to call on you, John. But for now, maybe it is wise you just head back home for a while. That doctored recording does make you seem like a hard-ass.”

“I saw it had to be done, sir, and I didn’t want you in that role. Better me than you.”

“Thank you, John.”

They both stood silent for a moment.

“A question, John.”

“Anything.”

“Would you have done it?”

“What?”

“Smashed the place apart and driven those thousands out into the cold to starve?”

John looked past him, gaze lingering on the distant hills of Gettysburg. All the sacrifice that happened there. All the sacrifice endured there and up now to this moment.

“Sir, don’t ever ask me that question again,” John whispered.

Bob nodded. “Understood, my friend.”

The helicopter rotor began to turn. The two dropped their cigarettes, John grinding his into the snow to put it out.

Bob held out the pack, offering the rest to him. John smiled sadly and shook his head.

“I once made a promise, sir.”

Bob looked at him quizzically and then seemed to understand and nodded.

“I’m quit now, quit forever. This is the final day.”





EPILOGUE

“May the peace of the Lord be with all of you on this most blessed of days of renewal and beginnings. I hereby declare the academic semester to be open.”

There was a scattering of applause as Reverend Black, newly appointed president of the college, stepped away from the lectern of restored Graham Chapel of Gaither Hall, the name having been changed in memory of an honored couple who had resided in Montreat for most of their lives and actually been married in the chapel in a long-ago age.

There was the traditional closing hymn, the school song, led by the choir, and as they finished, the congregation started to leave. But then a lone voice from the choir began to sing a song that struck John to the very core for all its symbolism. The lone female voice echoed in the restored chapel.

“Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow and oh so mellow.”

All stood frozen in place, and more than a few began to weep. John looked over at Makala, remembering the first time he had brought her to this chapel. A student up on the stage, unaware that she had an audience, had started to sing that song from The Fantasticks. It had become something of a theme of the time they had been through, a song of remembrance and loss.

Young Jennie was nestled in against her mother, having fallen asleep through most of the service, but was now stirring, looking up sleepy eyed at her father and smiling.

He put his arm protectively around Makala’s shoulder and walked with her out of the chapel into what was proving to be a glorious early May morning, the date symbolically chosen since it was exactly three years ago that the Day had struck them all. And now, phoenixlike, the school was again stirring to life.

Following old tradition, John gathered with the other faculty at the base of the stairs to shake hands with the students leaving and heading to class. Mixed in were members of the community. Maury was still a bit ungainly with crutches as Forrest helped him down the steps. Maury’s leg wound had become infected; Makala had struggled with it for over a month before finally conceding it had gone gangrenous and amputating it.

As he was helped down the steps by Forrest, who had become a dedicated friend to Maury during his long months of recovery, the two together reminded John of old photographs of Civil War veterans minus a limb helping each other along, sharing a bond that someone who had not been through their fiery trial could never understand.

Most of the students who shook John’s hand were “the survivors” as they called themselves, their features hard, wiry, hands gnarled from an early spring of putting in crops. Most had already put in several hours of labor in the fields before returning to campus. Until the harvest was in, there would be but three hours of class a day near noontime and then back out later in the day to resume work.

His daughter Elizabeth was mixed in with the crowd. Now the mother of two, she was not attending classes but had come for the ceremony honoring all those who had fallen with the reading of the names of all students, staff, and faculty who had given the last full measure of devotion. As “Lee Robinson, killed in action, Gettysburg,” was read off, John saw her lean in closer to her husband, Seth, Lee’s son, who bowed his head as she held him close. For John, the fact that his comrade’s son was registered in his class filled him with happiness and poignant memories as well. In a long-ago time, Lee would visit his class as a Civil War reenactor to talk about the equipment, uniform, and life of the troops. Seth, even as a ten-year-old, would proudly attend wearing a uniform handmade by his loving mother. He looked so much like his father and would forever be a reminder of one of the closest of friends.

John saw a man coming down the stairs who but a few years ago must have been full of the vigor of life, but on this day looked broken. He had arrived on campus only the day before. He was one of several dozen parents who across the months since the onset of a relative semblance of peace had made the journey to discover the fate of a son or daughter sent to this quiet, peaceful campus before the coming of the Day.