Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

  WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

  [Episode One]

  CHRIS STEWART

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mercury Radio Arts, Inc.

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  Original Edition © The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Deseret Book Company) Condensed Edition © 2012 The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Mercury Radio Arts, Inc. under license from Deseret Book Company)

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Richard Yoo

  ISBN: 978-0-9854619-0-4 (ePub)

  And where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.

  2 Corinthians 3:17

  How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, who didst rise in the morning!

  Isaiah 14:12

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prologue

  In war there are no unwounded soldiers.

  José Narosky

  It was calm. Peaceful and sweet. Like that brief moment in the morning before waking and thoughts settle in, before the dim light filters through and the morning winds blow. It was the calm of nature, a peace that man cannot produce, like the silent roll of dark clouds before the coming storm or the calm of glassy water before the first raindrops fall. The peace seemed to come from above and below, from the sky and the ground, as if the Earth itself paused as it took a long deep breath.

  It was the last peace, the great peace, the deep breath before the storm. The Golden Age was closing and the heavens paused and waited for the long plunge ahead.

  Some people saw it coming.

  But they were few.

  Arlington National Cemetery—New Annex

  (Formerly Alexandria National Cemetery)

  Alexandria, Virginia

  It had rained all night, thunderclouds rolling in from the Blue Ridge Mountains, the dark clouds boiling with power as they met the moisture from the sea. Lightning and heavy rain pounded the night, then suddenly stopped as daylight drew near. The first line of storms moved off to the Chesapeake Bay and lingered over the sea, caught between the rising sun and the musky coastline behind. But the rain wasn’t over. What was already the wettest spring in a century had much more to give.

  The day dawned cold and dreary. Another band of dark clouds gathered in the morning light, moving in from the west, blowing over the hill that loomed on the horizon. Heavy mist hung in the air until the weak morning breeze finally carried it away.

  The grass around the freshly dug grave was wet and long, with tiny drops of moisture glistening from the tips of each blade. The pile of dirt next to the grave was dark and rich, loamy with many years of rotting vegetation and now soaked and wet. A patch of Astroturf had been placed over the pile of dirt and pinned down on the corners to keep it from flapping in the wind. A sad arrangement of plastic roses and baby’s breath set atop the Astroturf.

  Only recently had Alexandria been designated as the annex to Arlington National Cemetery, which had been destroyed. Although smaller, it was just as beautiful, nestled on the west side of the Potomac River. But like the rest of Washington, D.C., it had been destroyed, too. Rows of elms and oaks stood over the graves, but the trees’ bark facing north were burned, and soon the trees would die.

  Within the confines of the cemetery, the world was peaceful and quiet. Indeed, the cemetery appeared much like it would have a few months before. But outside the cemetery gates, there was appalling evidence of how the world had been thrown on its back.

  Underneath the heavy clouds, the sky was heavy from the dust and ash that had been kicked into the air. Above the clouds, there was a layer that blocked out much of the sun and turned the moon blood red. Every night was ablaze with the aurora borealis, sheets of green and blue that, for the first time in history, reached as far south as the tropics. Outside the cemetery gates, there were a few people walking—even a man on a horse—but no operating motor vehicles could be seen anywhere. The roads were littered with cars, buses and trucks that had not moved since the moment of the event, all of them remaining where they had rolled to a stop, their metal carcasses cluttering both sides of the streets. In the skies above the cemetery, no aircraft could be seen descending toward Reagan National Airport. Indeed, all across the nation, there was no air traffic at all. And that was not the only modernity that was no more. Postal service, banks, electricity, communications, refrigeration, modern travel . . . the list of things that had disappeared was very long.

  In the median that separated the highway, a desperate group of people who now called themselves a tribe was working the ground with a plow that had been improvised from a sheet of metal and piece of rope. Two men pulled while another man guided the makeshift device. It was slow and painful work, and barely suitable, for the plow barely turned the earth. But they were desperate to till the ground in any way they could. If they didn’t plow, they couldn’t plant the few seeds they had been given by their benefactor—a foreign government. If they didn’t plant, they didn’t harvest, and if they didn’t harvest, they didn’t eat.

  The world was back to the 1880s.

  It was not a good place to be.

  * * *

  The six-man color guard waited by the grave. Their uniforms were so crisp they almost cracked as the men moved. Their polished boots reflected the gray light from the sky. The sergeant in charge stood in front of his men, giving them one final inspection before the mourners appeared. “Gig line!” he hissed to a junior non-commissioned officer. He glanced at his chest and aligned the buttons on his shirt with the zipper cover on his pants. “Cover,” the sergeant whispered as he moved down the line. A young corporal adjusted his headgear, pulling it down uncomfortably over his eyes. Satisfied, the sergeant moved to the end of the line, put himself into position, then glanced at his watch. It was 2:56 p.m. The service was scheduled to begin at 3 p.m. It would begin exactly on time, of course. Perfection was the standard when it came to paying respect to their dead.

  The sergeant heard the soft clip-clop of hooves coming up the narrow strip of asphalt that wound through the National Cemetery. Glancing to his right, he saw a single mare, old but proud, her dark mane perfectly curried and braided to the right. She emerged from around a tight bend in the road, drawing a small carriage behind her. Black and shiny, with wooden wheels and a leather harness, the carriage carried a single bronze casket on its sideless bed. Seeing the casket, the sergeant took a deep breath and straightened himself. “Ten-HUT!” he whispered powerful from deep in his chest. His soldiers drew themselves straight, their shoulders square, their chins tight, their hands fists. They looked straight ahead, their faces without expression as they stared at some unknown object on the distant horizon.<
br />
  As the funeral procession approached, the sergeant placed his right foot exactly behind his left foot, his right toe pointing down, barely touching his left heel, and turned right with perfect mechanical precision. He faced the approaching wagon, staring at the metal casket so as to never make eye contact with the mourners who followed. The dark horse walked with high steps, her flanks glistening with sweat.

  As the wagon drew close, the sergeant felt his heart quicken. This one was special and he wanted the funeral ceremony done right.

  The wagon passed by a huge oak tree and he caught a better glimpse of the casket, a dark bronze box draped in an American flag. Atop the flag, an enormous ring of flowers, freshly cut and beautifully arranged, had been placed over the center of the casket.

  Twenty-four roses. Twelve red and twelve white.

  White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.

  Seeing the flowers, the sergeant had to swallow against the catch in his throat. Although he felt a severe sense of pride in each funeral ceremony that he participated in, he knew this dead soldier’s story and he felt unprepared for the emotion he suddenly felt welling inside.

  Next to the roses, glistening in the humid air, a copper medallion with a blue ribbon had been carefully draped over the stars on the flag. For the first time in his life, the sergeant saw the Congressional Medal of Honor, the most sacred tribute a nation could bestow upon a man. Ten thousand soldiers could die in battle and not one of them would earn the privilege of receiving this award. It was rare, it was sacred, and too often it was given posthumously.

  The sergeant’s color guard stood stone still as the funeral procession approached, the mourners following the carriage as it moved toward the grave. And though the sergeant didn’t focus on the family, he couldn’t help but see her out of the corner of his eye.

  She was small, maybe six or seven years old, with blond hair, slender arms and pale eyes. She glanced around anxiously, bewildered, fear and pain bleeding through the tight look in her face. Her mother walked beside her, a perfect reflection of the child: blonde hair, dark features and blue eyes. She was tall, slender and dressed in a simple white dress. No dark colors, the sergeant noticed—no black dress or mourning veil. And there was something strong and wonderful about her. Even in their sadness, the mother and daughter were beautiful.

  The child approached the grave like it was a terrible monster, a dark gaping passage leading into the next world. Thunder broke and rolled through the trees. Deep, sad, and somber, the sound echoing across the wet ground as another thunderclap rolled and slowly faded.

  A cold breeze blew at the sergeant’s neck, raising the hair on his arms. “Please,” he prayed, “give this family twenty minutes before You let Your rains fall.”

  With a flash of lightning, another thunderclap rolled across the rolling hills. But the rains didn’t fall.

  The sergeant had performed a hundred ceremonies over the past eleven months; indeed, this was the third funeral ceremony he had presided over on this day. But as he watched the black wagon and proud horse, as he saw the small child grasping her mother’s hand and the Congressional Medal of Honor over the flag, he couldn’t stop the emotion boiling up inside him. A single, salty teardrop rolled down his cheek to settle on his jaw before slowly sliding down his neck.

  Too many funerals. Too many good men. Too many young children and too many wives.

  White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.

  The family approached, stepping across the wet grass while staring into the darkness of the open grave. An army chaplain reached out and took the mother by the hand to direct her to a set of wicker chairs. The mother and child sat down carefully, the young girl gripping her mother’s hand as if she was holding onto life. A crown of white flowers had been braided through her hair and she tugged at them gently to keep them in place.

  The funeral procession formed a half circle on one side of the grave. The deceased soldier’s parents stared solemnly at the casket. A man reached down and placed his hand on the widow’s shoulder, and she leaned her face against his hand. Six generals watched and waited. To their right, two army captains stood in their dress uniforms, a shadow on their faces that seemed to age them somehow. A young woman with dark skin and long hair waited behind the others. A foreigner, Middle Eastern maybe, she was one of the most beautiful women the sergeant had ever seen. A small boy stood beside her; dark-haired, olive skin, darting eyes. Behind him, at least a dozen bodyguards blended among the heavy trees, all of them keeping a careful eye upon their charge. The young boy glanced quickly at the little girl, then lowered his eyes to the dirt, his face clouded with shame. One of the young officers noticed his reaction. He knelt down and whispered to him but the little boy didn’t respond.

  The chaplain nodded to the color guard leader and the sergeant commanded under his breath, “Element, post!” The six men moved forward in perfect step toward the carriage, three on each side. Without verbal commands, the men reached out, took the casket by the metal handles and lifted together. The casket was light, for it was nearly empty. The men turned crisply, carried the flag-draped casket forward and placed it over the nylon straps that had been stretched across the grave, and then stepped out of the way. The chaplain leaned over, whispered a few words to the widow, and then stood.

  In that brief moment of quiet, one of the young army officers took a short step toward the casket. Looking around bashfully, he knelt and placed his hand on the flag. “You are my brother,” he whispered through his tears. “I will love you forever. And none of us will forget . . . .” His voice trailed off. “We will always remember what you did for us . . . what you did for them.” He knelt there a moment, his forehead touching the flag, then forced himself to stand and walk back.

  The young mother reached out as he passed. He touched her hand with his fingers before stepping back in place.

  Everyone fell quiet as they waited for the service to begin.

  The chaplain straightened his uniform before he offered his final words. He spoke of simple things—duty, honor, bravery, truth, the obligations that came with freedom and the price that had been paid to keep people free. Then he nodded to the young widow and lowered his voice. “In a moment such as this, there is little comfort I can give you,” he said. “Indeed, were I to say too much, my words might only diminish your loss. Only time and the Lord can ease you of this pain. But though I don’t have the answers, this much I believe. All men will die. All of us will be called upon to pass on to the other side. But only a few special men are given the honor of dying for a cause.

  “In this life, especially in these trying times, all of us will be called upon to make a sacrifice. When, or in what manner that sacrifice may be required, only God knows. All we can do is wait and prepare and pray that when our time comes, we will be ready to complete the task He gives us. All we can hope is that when our sacrifice is over, we might look to the Lord and say the same words that He said: ‘I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.’”

  The chaplain paused and looked again at the widow. “I am so grateful there are still men like your husband in this world,” he said in a low voice. “He fought for the freedom of others. That is why we fight wars. We don’t conquer other nations; we don’t occupy other lands. Indeed, the only foreign soil our nation has ever claimed have been tiny spots such as this where we seek a quiet pasture to bury our dead.

  “So I speak for a thankful nation when I tell you that we are not only grateful to your husband, we are also grateful to you. We are grateful for your sacrifice and the price that you and your daughter have paid. Your sacrifice is sufficient. Your husband is now home. And I pray the Lord will bless you until you are together again.”

  With that, the chaplain took a step back and nodded to the color guard. Two of the soldiers stepped to the casket and lifted the American flag. Another sergeant marched to the side of the dark oak and watched over the grave. The sergeant lifted a silver bugle and
began to play.

  “Day is done, gone the sun,

  From the hills, from the lake,

  From the sky. . . .”

  The sound of “Taps” was low and mournful and it trailed through the trees and across the wet grass, melting over the graves of the American dead. As the bugler played, the two solders reverently folded the American flag into a perfect triangle, tight and firm. The junior non-commissioned officer held the folded flag, clutching it with crossed arms at his chest. The sergeant took two steps back and stood at rigid attention, then quickly drew his fist from his thigh and up across his chest, extending his fingers as his hand crossed his heart, then moving upward until his finger touched the tip of his brow. He held the salute, the last salute, for a very long time, then slowly, almost unwillingly, lowered his hand.

  Stepping forward, he took the flag from the junior non-commissioned officer, then turned crisply to the young wife. “On behalf of a grateful nation,” he whispered as he handed her the flag.

  She reached out and took it, placing it on her lap. The soldier passed her the Congressional Medal of Honor, and she clutched it in her hand. Then the soldiers turned together and moved to the side. The bugle faded away and the silence returned.

  And with that it was over. The service was done.

  At least it should have been. But no one moved, for it seemed as if there was something left unsaid. Every eye turned to the widow and her child. The young mother glanced down at the little girl and nodded. The mother smiled encouragingly and the little girl stood, moved slowly to the casket then turned hesitantly to her mother, who nodded again. The crowd waited in breathless silence. It seemed as if even the Earth held its breath.

  The little girl stood for a moment, and the clouds seemed to part. The wind turned suddenly calm and the thunderclouds paused. The girl placed her hand on the casket, then lifted her head. “Daddy, I want to tell you something,” she said in a quivering voice. “I want you to know that I’m going to take care of mommy, just like you asked me to do. I will make her cakes for her birthdays, just like I promised that I would.” Her voice trailed off and she quickly looked away then turned back to the casket again. “I love you, Daddy. I want to believe the things you told me. But daddy, I’m scared. I miss you, I miss you! And there’s so much I don’t understand . . . .”