Omega Days (Volume 1) - By John L. Campbell Page 0,3
memory of last night was waiting too, and he immediately tried to pray, as he had every morning since his late twenties, searching for an answer, some understanding, not daring to ask forgiveness
He couldn’t do it. The words sounded false, and he had the unshakable feeling that he was praying to a God who had already turned away. Instead, Xavier sat on the edge of the bed for over an hour, the headache making his eyes hurt, replaying the scene in the apartment. He heard the gunfire, could smell the blood, saw it splattered on peeling wallpaper and soaking into cheap carpeting. He sensed that he had walked off a cliff, one from which there could be no return.
And just like that, he knew he wasn’t a priest anymore. He waited to feel the great emptiness which would come with that knowledge, the void left in the place of his faith and vows, but there was nothing. And that was even more frightening, for it suggested that his faith had left him long ago, and made him wonder if it had ever really been there at all.
Xavier put on jeans and sneakers, then pulled on a black sweatshirt with fading letters which read St. Joseph’s Boxing. On most men it would have been baggy, but on Xavier it could not conceal his broad ‘V-shape’ of wide shoulders, back and chest muscles. He visited the hallway bathroom, the mirror revealing bloodshot eyes and a face which looked aged overnight. Three Tylenol later, he went downstairs.
The rectory was quiet and empty, and even the secretary was not at her usual post, a desk near the front door. On the dining room table was a note from the monsignor, asking him to please stay in the rectory and not use the internet or answer the phone until the bishop and the Archdiocese could be consulted.
The beat of a helicopter close overhead made him look at the ceiling and think about his dreams. He went to the kitchen, where he found Father Frye standing at the sink and looking out the window. The smell of coffee filled the room, and he poured himself a cup. Frye, a man in his eighties, didn’t look away from the window.
“Where is everyone?” Xavier asked, adding a packet of Splenda and stirring.
The old man waved a hand. “Some sort of emergency. Been gone since last night.” Frye was all but retired, and too old to go out much.
“What kind of emergency?”
A siren yowled in the distance, and the old man shrugged. “Can’t say. I couldn’t find the TV remote, and I’m too old to figure the damn thing out without it.”
Xavier smiled over his coffee and switched on the small flat screen mounted to a wall in the corner of the kitchen. The volume was down. A reporter was saying something on screen and gesturing at a tank in the background. Then the tank fired silently, making the reporter duck as the camera jerked to the right. A crowd of people a block away was surging up a smoky city street, backlit by burning cars. Xavier joined the old man at the sink. “What are you looking at?”
“Sister Emily,” he said. “I think so, anyway. My eyes aren’t so good anymore.”
A small, walled garden separated the rectory from Sisters of Mercy, the convent next door. Out on the grass, in front of a flower bed, a small, stooped woman in a pale blue and white nun’s habit was standing wearing gardening gloves, facing away from them. On the grass nearby was a basket with rose shears sticking out of it. The nun’s arms hung limp at her sides, and she was swaying back and forth.
Father Frye squinted. “I don’t know if she’s praying or just daydreaming, but she’s been that way for a while now. Lord, I hope it’s not a stroke.”
Xavier looked at the old nun. She didn’t look natural. “Maybe-”
The BOOM of an explosion rolled over the yard, and both men jumped as a cloud of black smoke rose from somewhere beyond the convent. Sister Emily’s head snapped up at the sound.
They both started towards the kitchen door, but stopped short when they saw the images on the silent TV screen. A shaking camera showed a San Francisco street – a trolley car burned in the background – filled with police cars and military vehicles stopped at odd angles. A crowd of people were moving towards a small cluster of cops and soldiers, who were firing