Apocalypse: The Savior with System

4 One Good Man

In a diner somewhere in Arkansas, life seemed to run normally. Set in a sleepy town surrounded by prairies, it was the usual hangout for the locals, especially on a Friday. One might think to come to the town that it seemed to fare well despite the pandemic of so many years and the surge of infected from the new strain. But even here, surrounded by grass and rolling hills, they were not untouched. The town has lost a few of its own to the disease.

Still, Friday lunch must always be spent in Gary’s Diner. It was a tradition. It was one of the few things now that still screamed “normal”.

“Dearie, would you please pass me the salt?” an elderly woman asked a much younger lady from the other table. The salt was passed with thanks to the old woman.

“Gary! Switch the channel to the news, will yah?” one of the diner’s male patrons requested—or screamed—from one of the booths. Gary, a pudgy man and erstwhile owner of said diner reluctantly changed the channel from a sports one to the news.

“Dunno why you still like watching those ‘crats gabber all these years, Ted,” Gary said, turning the volume up as all pairs of eyes inside the diner went to the giant flat-screen TV above the bar.

“’ Cause they might have just found the cure already!”

“Quiet, people!” another patron hushed everyone. “Minister Pearse is speaking!”

Up on the screen, a tall, distinguished-looking man in a dark gray suit stood to one side behind who sat a hundred or so other men and women in the same suit. Grey-eyed, dark-haired with a touch of silver at the temples, a tall nose, and an equally silver-dusted beard completed the look of the Conservative Faction’s First Minister. His deep, resonant voice echoed in the chamber and likewise inside the diner.

He was in the middle of giving a speech on additional research funding for vaccine and treatment when another man from the other side of the chamber rose and started speaking passionately against Pearse.

Both were tall men but this one, from the opposing Radical Faction, had none of Ulysses Pearse’s finesse. Where Pearse was calm and collected from his hair to the shiny tips of his shiny shoes, his direct opposition in the interim government, David Morgan, was the brash and burly type.

Morgan was tall but also wide and not given to wearing the fancy suits his peers in government liked wearing. Right now he was in a coffee-stained shirt tucked into faded corduroy slacks, his feet in scuffed leather boots, sporting his signature snow-white hair, white beard, and blue eyes that blazed with passion whenever he talks about the plight of the sufferers. Some say that his voice had gotten hoarser and hoarser over the years because of his inflammatory and rousing speeches though it has also been said because it was because of his great love for tobacco.

Not that such a description meant Minister Morgan was less than capable of leading. He only tended to rub people the wrong way but as his supporters would say in his defense, there was a good heart underneath all that bristly, high-strung personality.

Currently, the two men were in a debate on funding, with Pearse asking for more in support of research while Morgan wanted more funding for rehabilitation since the past two meetings they’ve granted Pearse and his private-owned laboratories the money to conduct research and his private-owned hospitals to house and care for the isolated “sufferers”.

“I have received news that the sufferers in Minister Pearse’s hospitals are faring much worse than those placed in the facilities designated for Phases 1 to 3 infected,” Morgan argued. “And now, with this new and faster strain out, are we going to overwhelm his own hospitals with everyone even mildly suspected of the infection? And what of the furnaces? I’ve been coming to the meetings about this concern for many seasons now. Is there no basis to be found that the smoke and ash from the furnaces may have done more to spread the new strain faster?”

At this point, the presiding chairman, or the Primus, rapped his gavel on the podium and asked Morgan to desist with the furnace issue since the meeting’s agenda was in relation to the funding. Clearly not wanting to be bested again by the serene and obviously favorite Pearse, Morgan began to argue with the Primus himself.

Which, naturally, caused everyone on the benches to start arguing with their opposition.

Ted, who had wanted the news, to begin with, grunted in disappointment and returned to eating his beef steak. Gary eagerly switched the channel back to the sports one.

“As expected,” the old woman said, shaking her head. “I’ve lived eighty-five years, witnessed governments crash and this new one comes to life, saw all my children and grandchildren save for two change and die of this infection…but nothing has changed with the way men run the world.”

“And how is that?” the young lady asked.

“All talk, mostly always talk, while the rest of the world outside continues to move, live, and die. Almost always never on their own terms but on the whims on those same men you saw.”

“You’re not Conservative or Radical, ma’am?”

The old woman chuckled. “Me? Oh, I’ve never had a liking for going to one side or the other. But let me tell you this. I believe that soon, all that talk is going to amount to nothing. Someone else will come to change the world for the better.”

“What? Like Jesus or something?”

“Maybe,” the old woman breathed as she stood to leave and wave to Gary while Gary waved back. “Doesn’t have to be a god, dearie. All the world needs is a truly good man. Just one will be all right, I think. And all the rest will follow.”

“You don’t think they’re good men? Pearse and Morgan?”

The old woman gave the young lady an enigmatic look. “And what about you?”

The young lady shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“A safe answer,” the old woman said, smiling kindly and then taking her to leave.

The young lady soon followed, going to her pick-up truck and deciding to take off. She logged into her mini-tablet and checked out the map. She was still on the right trail for her mission.

But before she left, she checked one other thing just out of curiosity.

Bertha McAllister, 85 years old. Owns McAllister Vineyard, maker of fine wines since 1875.

There could be something here, she thought. A little R & R won’t be a bad thing at the moment. She gave the large duffel bag containing a mini arsenal of long-range weapons on the passenger seat a cursory glance. Putting the truck in reverse, she diverted from the highway and went in the direction of McAllister Vineyard.

You’ll get there soon, Quinn. Soon.