Chapter 2
"Reality is wrong. Dreams are for real." -Tupac Shakur
Darien sat on his bed flipping through the channels when the station flashed a Special Report. "Great, now what?" The next thing Darien saw was the President sitting behind his desk. "Okay, this should be interesting," Darien turned up the volume to listen.
"…a great nation such as this must do. We cannot afford to jump at shadows like small children in a dark room' but neither can we afford to take this serious out-break of influenza lightly…"
"Influenza?" Darien snorted at the TV.
"…My fellow Americans, I urge you to stay at home. If you feel ill, stay in bed, take aspirin, and drink plenty of clear liquids. Be confident that you will feel better in a week at most."
"Oh what a bunch of…you'll feel better alright, you'll be dead!" Darien said out loud to the TV.
"Let me repeat what I said at the beginning of my talk to you this evening, there is no truth—no truth---to the rumor that this strain of flu is fatal."
Darien shook his head from side to side, "Oh man,"
"In the greatest majority of cases, the person afflicted can expect to be up and around and feeling fine within a week, Further…" The President goes into a spasm of coughing.
"Asta la vista, Mr. President." Darien sighed.
"Further, there has been a vicious rumor promulgated by certain radical anti-establishment groups that this strain of influenza has been somehow bred by this government for some possible military use. Fellow Americans, this is a flat out falsehood, and I want to brand it as such right here and now. This country signed the revised Geneva Accords on poison gas, nerve gas, and germ warfare in good conscience and in good faith. We have not now nor have we ever…" The President starts to sneeze.
Claire walked into the room, "Hello, Darien."
Darien pointed to the TV, "Do you believe this crap?"
"…have we ever been a party to the clandestine manufacture of substances outlawed by the Geneva Convention. This is a moderately serious outbreak of influenza, no more and no less. We have reports tonight of outbreaks in a score of other countries, including Russia and China. Therefore we…" The President starts to cough and sneeze.
"He has to say these things to protect the public, you know that." Claire put her tray down to draw some more blood.
"…we ask you to remain calm and secure in the knowledge that late this week or early next, a flu vaccine will be available for those not already on the mend. National Guardsmen have been called out in some areas to protect the populace against hooligans, vandals, and scare-mongers, but there is absolutely no truth to the rumors that some cities have been 'occupied' by regular army forces or that the news has been managed. My Fellow Americans, this is a flat-out lie, and I want to brand it as such right here and now."
"Oh it's been managed alright…news crews are being hunted down and shot."
"Darien, you don't really believe that do you?" Claire put the tourniquet around Darien's arm.
"Well sure, I mean, obviously the President's been managed. He didn't say anything near the truth." Darien paused, "Well, that's not out of the ordinary is it?" He watched as Claire carefully drew his blood, "How long have we been here, Keep?"
"Three days, Darien." Claire is wearing one of those isolation suits that make her look like she's about ready to go on a space walk. "We're still the only two in this whole place who are not sick yet."
"Then what's up with the banana suit? It's not very flattering, you know." Darien held the gauze in place to stop the bleeding. "How's Hobbes?"
"I talked to him just a few minutes ago. I told him that they won't let you talk to anybody, he sends his regards." Claire marked her vials and put them in the caddy.
"Claire, is he sick or not?" Darien knew when Claire was holding something back.
"No, Darien, Bobby is not sick. The Official died last night and Eberts is very sick. Bobby doesn't think he'll last much longer." Claire turned to look at Darien, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. The strange thing now is Hobbes is in charge of the Agency, well, what's left of it anyway." Darien turned off the TV, "What happens to us if we don't get sick?"
"Well, with Bobby in charge of the Agency, the first thing he did was tear up the Official's order to harvest the gland," Claire smiled at Darien. "I don't think they'll keep us here, everyone is getting sick."
"Hobbes won't order the gland removed, but what about these people? I mean, do you know what they're orders are concerning us? They're probably killing people out there, Claire. Maybe reporters are getting gunned down. How do we know that we're safe in here?"
"Okay, tell you what, at the first sign of trouble, we'll leave and find Bobby." Claire patted Darien on his shoulder and left the room. Darien leaned back in his bed and after awhile, fell asleep.
Hobbes was the only one that reported to work. Everyone was at home sick. He spent the better part of the day destroying documents and when he was done, officially shut down the agency. His conversation with Claire had proved to be the best part of his day. He was glad to hear that both Claire and Darien still had no signs of the flu. He said a quick prayer of thanks and he smiled as he thought, 'I guess it's time like these that people start praying again.' He rested his head on his arms and promptly fell asleep.
Claire brought Darien's blood samples to the lab and noticed that it was just her. Sadness came over her and she sat down and wept. The release of her emotions was more than what her body could handle and she fell into a deep slumber.
Darien looked surprised as he found himself walking through a cornfield. Off in the distance he heard the sound of a guitar and someone singing, as he got closer, he recognized the tune as an old gospel song.
"What a Friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer."
Darien watched the old black woman on the rocking chair play her guitar and sing. This was different from any dream he has had in the past. The old woman and the song gave him comfort for a reason he didn't understand.
"Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged; take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness; take it to the Lord in prayer."
The old woman looked up and smiled, "Well, look who we have here. My name is Abigail Freemantle, but folks around these parts just call me Mother Abigail. You get your friends and come see me."
"What is this place?" Darien felt something move at his feet and when he looked down there was nothing there.
"Come see me, Darien and all your friends, bring them to Hemingford, Nebraska." Mother Abigail continued to play and sing her song.
"Wait, how did you know my name?" Darien suddenly found himself in the middle of the cornfield and away from the old black woman, "Mother Abigail!" He shouted as loud as he could. Something fury scurried over his bare feet and he looked down to see rats running all around him, "Aw crap!" Darien started to run, but he couldn't out run the rats. He stopped when he saw a dark figure in the corn; he froze and stared as the eyes of the dark figure burned with fire.
"Darien." The figure's voice sounded like the wind on a cold night.
Darien bolted up in bed and looked around the room. He was back in the isolation room. He moved his feet over the side of the bed and ran his hand through his hair. "Okay, first it's a crow saying my name, now it's an old black woman playing a guitar singing gospel songs in front of a cornfield with rats and a dark man with red eyes. Yep, I'm losing it."
"He speaks, and the sound of His voice,
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known."
The singing and the sound of the guitar was Hobbes guide through the cornfield. He walked up the porch and the old black woman stopped her playing. "Folks around these parts call me Mother Abigail. I'm 106 years old and still make my own bread. I've lived here in Hemingford, Nebraska my whole life. You bring your friends, Bobby and come see me."
Hobbes looked at the old black woman on the rocking chair, "Am I dreaming, cause Bobby Hobbes doesn't dream."
Mother Abigail smiled at Hobbes, "May hap you is and may hap you ain't."
A flash of lightning and thunder caused the conversation to stop. Hobbes looked up, "A bad storm is coming, maybe you should go inside."
"It's a storm that no one can't hide from, Bobby. It's a storm that you and others will fight. Come see me."
Hobbes turned around quickly and there was a man standing in front of him with glowing red eyes. The dark man bared his pointed teeth at Hobbes, "Boo."
Hobbes sat up at the desk and looked around the room, "What is going on here?" As he got up he heard the black woman's voice again, "Get your friends and come see me." He went to the door and turned to make sure he still wasn't dreaming. He was awake but the smell of the cornfield was still in his nostrils.
Claire made her way through the cornfield. She stopped when she heard the sound of singing and a guitar.