The Final Day (After, #3)(122)

A smart compromise had actually been suggested by a history professor out of Purdue who specialized in the pre–Civil War South, suggesting that the thirteen original states should send the original number of delegates, and once a quorum was convened, delegates from states, in order of their admission into the original Union, would be greeted once the Constitution was reaffirmed. The idea, of course, was immediately seized on by those within the original states. It was seen as a way out of an impasse that threatened to cripple Bob’s hopes before they were even remotely attempted.

And therefore, this day—what Bob at his inauguration as president called the Final Day—marked the beginning of a restored United States of America. Henceforth, this day in May would be observed with the same reverence as July 4, but also as a day of reflection as December 7 and September 11 were once observed.

The ringing of the campus bell stirred John from his musings. It was time.

He stood up, leaning over the railing. A blossom in the thicket of rhododendron that all but engulfed the small building was beginning to bloom. He gently plucked it free, held it for a moment, and then let it drop into the stream.

“Jennifer, sleep in peace, my little angel,” he whispered.

He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out Rabs, flame scorched but still intact. The house next to where he had buried Jennifer and her grandmother was gone. There was no longer a windowsill for Rabs to rest upon and keep watch. But here, he realized, was a sacred place as well, where the names of so many others who had been lost were engraved. His gaze lingered on Grace’s name, recognizing Kevin’s handwriting. Picking up a pencil from the small table in the room, he wrote Jennifer’s name beneath Grace’s and placed Rabs on the table.

“Keep watch over all of them now, my little friend,” he whispered, patting Rabs affectionately, eyes clouding with tears as he finally let go of the pain. All on this campus knew who Rabs was, and all would keep watch over him as well, and he would remain in the chapel as days, months, and eventually years slipped by.

John left the peaceful chapel, entered Belk Hall, and climbed the three flights of steps to the third floor to what he had once considered to be his classroom.

Of the thirty-five seats in the room, only a dozen were filled. He paused for a brief instant, taking that in, and he could not help but think that so much had been lost. Could they ever truly hope to recover?

One of the students, face creased by an ugly wound from the battle with the Posse, instinctively stood up and came to attention, the others following his lead. The man, for he was a man who was not even twenty yet, his childhood from a world that used to say, “Twenty-five is the new eighteen,” had been robbed of adolescence forever. Would there ever again be a childhood for this generation? He looked at the old-style mechanical clock on the classroom wall. It was noon. Three hundred and fifty miles away, a friend of his—some hailing him as a George Washington reborn, others denouncing him as nothing better than a dictator—was being sworn in as president of the United States.

But then again, had not the same been said of Washington in his day, the legend not yet formed and ahead yet more wars, strife, a civil war that came close to forever rendering the Union apart, and from there global wars and finally the war of this generation?

Such had it been, and whether with hope or fear, such it would always be. There had been a chance to have prevented it all, but all the voices who had warned of its coming had been ignored, the mute testament of that folly the fact that two out of every three chairs in this room were empty. So many ghosts he could see hovering about those chairs—not just Grace, who, at least for a while, would be remembered, until, like all heroes, memory would fade even for her. So many others already half-forgotten. Their memories for him the ultimate price of the folly of letting those who let the nightmare unfold so easily take power and wield it while with honeyed words dripped lies of assurance and reassurance that they would all be taken care of. Forgotten the prophetic words that the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

He realized that he had been standing before the class for several minutes gazing at the room in silence. Several were in tears as they looked upon him, and he felt his throat tighten.

“Stand at ease and be seated, please,”

He looked around the room, smiled, and then as he once used to do at the start of every class, John Matherson asked a question:

“Now, where did we leave off?”