Here’s a snippet of The Rekindler.
May 2032. Somewhere in Illinois.
Seventy miles from Chicago in an abandoned bricked ranch, concealed by four aging weeping willows, shadowy lights danced, hidden by a heavily draped front window.
Five fold-up chairs were arranged in a half-circle, facing a back-supporting barstool. Four candles in their holders were positioned around the room, flickering to the methodical movements of the seated enigmatic figures.
Sixty-two-year-old former Marine, Captain Benjamin Morris, shifted his husky frame on the high-topped chair, trying to get comfortable. Taking his clipboard and flipping to a clean page on the yellow pad, he jotted some notes, and gazed expectantly at the newest recruits, the majority in their early twenties. “Are you taking precautions wherever you go?”
This was their fourth location move in the last several weeks. Secrecy was a top priority for their safety and Benjamin was compelled to remind them once again the importance of being discreet. Encrypted communication was always sent to their devices no earlier than the day before their scheduled meetings as a safeguard.
“Yes Mr. Morris,” Petra answered. An enthusiastic Slavic, twenty-two-year-old brunette college student, excited to absorb her leader’s teachings.
Benjamin cleared his throat. “What did I tell you in the previous meetings about not calling me ‘Mister Morris’? I am your mentor, teacher, leader, and captain. Call me Captain, Benjamin, Morris, or Sir. Do I make myself clear?”
Petra nervously nodded along with the others, quickly looking down, and reviewing the points she took from the last session. Acts 2:1-47, commencement of Pentecost, ten days after Jesus ascended into Heaven. Disciples and many other men from other nations gathered, filled with the Holy Spirit, spoke in tongues, prophesized. Chapter ends with Peter reciting Joel’s sermon, three-thousand people saved and baptized.
Morris waited for another reply, “Next.”
“All good, sir,” replied Jacob, a twenty-year-old Canadian poker player shuffling a deck of cards between his hands.
“Yes, got it,” Caleb said, tossing back his head, flipping his red curly hair away from his ears. At eighteen, he was the youngest of this newly formed unit.
“Careful as I can be,” Joshua piped up. He was twenty-four years of age, a recent transplant from California. Bronzed, he flexed his bulging muscles through a tight-fitted T-shirt.
Benjamin scratched his cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He peered at the last, silent one in his young squad, “What about you, Franklin?”
Franklin’s dark-eyes bulged through black-rimmed frames; he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat knowing his teacher was keeping close tabs on him. Why does he keep staring at me like that? At twenty-eight, Franklin had the youthfulness of a seventeen-year-old with long greasy brown hair. Putting a gadget in his back-pocket, he coyly remarked, “Yeah, yeah, I’m safe. I’m not dumb, you know.”
Morris slid off his seat and balanced on his left-leg, his bad leg, the one where twenty years earlier, UNO, the new government’s militants had beaten him for protesting against President Kirby Borsta at a political rally. Today, two-long scars, thanks to thirty-six stitches, ran from his mid-thigh down to his ankle, a reminder that the cost of one’s faith and freedom was a hefty price to pay. A dull pain slinked down his calf; gritting his teeth, he leaned back on the stool for support.
Benjamin glared at his oldest member, “Eyeballs on me, Franklin. What’s that supposed to mean? Our safety is vital for our survival. If you’re not serious about what we’ve been doing, I suggest you leave now!”
Franklin held up his hands, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I am as dedicated as anyone here,” he said pointing to the others, and locking eyes with Petra.
Morris observed something between the two but chose to put it off for the moment. He’d have to have a ‘man-to-man’ conversation with Franklin later about having more than “friendly” relationships on these teams; prohibited because of the dangerous assignments. He had already lost two recruits, Ruth and Paul, who were in his third group; killed execution-style at a café in Los Angeles. Romance had clouded their focus on the job. He vowed after that incident there would be no more intimate affairs, everything strictly platonic.
“Very well. Don’t do it again.”
Benjamin was aware of Franklin’s cocky attitude at times, but he had come through with results. I can trust him; it’s his attitude that needs adjusting. He was a construction worker by trade. The two met at a site in downtown Chicago, where Morris convinced him to be part of his crew.
He recalled the man’s bravery in the last job five weeks earlier in Springfield. UNO was using three warehouse buildings along Interstate 65 as future prison camps for “unruly citizens”. Franklin stole the design plans outlining the cells, torture rooms and interrogation areas. Working with Joshua who was employed with an online news and media company, they leaked the documents to the public. UNO had since withdrew out of the development.
Turning to the rest of the crew, he said, “We’re accounted for.”
“Yes, sir!” the colleagues replied with gusto.
Their leader bowed his head, “Let’s pray before this evening’s session. Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this gathering. Fill us with Your wisdom to continue to do Your work. Give us strength, Lord. Protect us, Lord, keep us safe from harm. We do all this in Your Name, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone murmured.
“What’s happening on the ground? Who wants to go first?”
***
Copyright©Chiara Talluto
- To listen to the author (me, Chiara) read aloud the excerpt, click here.
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