Michael continued to read. “I have set forth here an account of our actions taken in order to survive after the horror of the burning in the sky. It is a brief account because I cannot bring myself to dwell on the details lest I should weep—“ “A rather quaint style, isn’t it?” John Rourke observed. “I’m skipping some more of his recriminations —here—here—“ and Michael began again to read from the diary. “When the flames seared the sky, it was evident to all of us that in order to live, the survival retreat erected by our employers—“ “Their employers,” Natalia whispered.
“Let him go on,” Rourke told her. He took a cigar from inside his battered brown bomber jacket and lit it in the flame of his Zippo—there was no ash tray but the fact didn’t bother him.
“The survival retreat erected by our employers would have to be hermetically sealed by means of the air locks for some time. Food supplies immediately began to dwindle despite the best rationing methods instituted by our employers and augmented by the kitchen staff. After several weeks, a volunteer from among the servants was sent out through the air locks to see if the atmosphere was safe. He was never heard from again. There was an attitude among us, those who served, that life had ceased having meaning. Although we were brought to our employers’
survival retreat prior to the bombings and missile strikes, our families and loved ones and friends were not. There were a few fortunates among us whose entire immediate family was in service, and therefore not excluded from the survival retreat. After several weeks, the rationing now quite severe, the air quality poor, another volunteer set forth. Likewise, he was never heard from again. It seemed clear that two choices confronted the persons living in the survival retreat, masters and servants alike—to either die a slow death or commit suicide. But it was one of the employers who struck on a third alternative, though it was never ascertained which of them, for indeed he may well have been killed in the fighting—“ “Oh, my God,” Natalia murmured.
Michael looked up a moment, then back to his diary. “The employers decided to exile their servants to whatever lay beyond the hermetically sealed doors. It was, as discussion amongst us later brought forth, only a logical extension of their view of us, their servants. For, after all, did we not exist to fulfill their needs? This then— survival— was a need like any other. “They awakened us while we slept, most of us in our pajamas or nightgowns forced from the quarters below and assembled at gunpoint on the golf course. We were then herded like animals into a pen in the swimming pool which had never been filled. We were held there, as two at a time our numbers depleted. But those taken away never returned. And suddenly, the whispered fate of these our co-workers began to spread throughout those of us who remained. Our co-workers, in some cases members of our families—they had been sent to their deaths through the air lock doors. One of our number—a brave soul—shouted this to our employers, that we, the servants, were being systematically executed. The employer—a boy of fourteen—nearest him shot him in the face with one of the rifles taken from storage in the arsenal vault. A cry went up. One of the butlers clambered up the side of the swimming pool to disarm the young murderer. One of the employers shot him, then smashed in his skull with the butt of a rifle. One of the parlor maids screamed, running toward the ladder leading from the pool. She was kicked back. More of our numbers then— it had begun. We started from the pool, many of us dying before ever reaching the level of those who would systematically murder us. There was fight-ing, shouting and much killing on both sides. I myself picked up a rifle and killed my employer with it, and then in a fit of rage shot his oldest son, shot his wife, shot his youngest daughter. His oldest daughter fell to her knees at my feet and wept. I did not shoot her. After the employers had been subdued, it was decided that indeed their decision to reduce the population of the survival retreat had been the only valid choice for survival. So the population was reduced. The bodies pushed through the air lock were some of the employers. The surviving employers were locked in their quarters and guarded. That night, I made love to my employer’s eldest daughter whose life I had spared and throughout it, I felt that she laughed inside herself at me.”
Michael looked up from the diary. “I can’t read any more of this.” Natalia—abruptly—took the diary from Mi- chael’s hands. She continued after a moment— Rourke presumed spent locating Michael’s place —to read. “Several weeks passed and we soon realized that the employers had needed us. We had not needed them. But still, there were very few of us. Selected younger members of the employers’ families—the woman whose bed I shared among them—were taken under tutelage and shown how best to prepare meals, to tend the gardens which grew beneath the artificial light, to clean what needed to be cleaned about the survival retreat of which we now were the masters. The chief butler among us was skilled with mathematical compu-tations and with the cooperation and intelligence of the chief gardener, the food supply’s yield was calculated. Twenty-four of the new masters— among these myself—had survived. More than one hundred of the former masters, the employers, remained. But by best estimates, only one hundred people could be supported by the garden without overtaxing the soil, without overusing the grow lights. Realizing that only one hundred could survive, those of us who now held sway drew random lots from among the more than one hundred of our employers. Twenty-nine names were selected, among these the oldest and least fit to work, to survive. In the dark of night when the lights were turned off, by candlelight we moved through the corridors—at gunpoint, we forced these selected ones toward the air lock doors. And then we turned them out to die.”
Natalia looked up, almost whispering, “I wish I had cigarettes.” Rourke watched her eyes as they flickered back to the diary. “The population began by natural means to grow and there was little illness. Again, from among the employers there were names selected. The employer’s daughter whom I had made my wife had borne me a child and though her name was selected, my wife’s name was set aside and another was chosen. As the years passed and it was realized that the earth outside our home beneath the ground might never be restored to where it could support life, those of the original group of servants who survived as the new masters formed the Counsel of Ministers in order to assume the awesome responsibility of determining who would live and who would go through the doors to their death, this to spare the greatest numbers any guilt. Voluntarily, our segment of the population was limited to twenty-four, mean-ing that seventy-six of our former employers, now our servants, would be permitted. When a child was born to us, the new masters, our population would be one or perhaps two too great. When a child was born to the new servants, their popula-tion would be too high as well. It was at these times that the Counsel of Ministers—Ministers because we prayed for guidance in our choices and prayed for the remission of our continual sins—we would determine from among the new servants who would die. It could not be done by lot— the gardeners were important, too important often to die. The lower classes of servants were used—the tailors, the seamstresses. Fibrous plants were grown and their bounty converted to cloth from which clothing could be fashioned with great skill. Slippers were worn because there was no leather for shoes. Life continued among both classes while inexorably, birth would come and death would be selected. No longer could only the old or infirm be selected to go, but from among the young. “I write this as I lay in the bed of my death—and I welcome death as death has come to be welcomed by all of our class, for death saves another life from . i being taken. And this is my consolation, that when my death comes, there will be ninety-nine only among all who dwell here and when a new child is born, no one will need to go. May God forgive me and all like me for what I was forced to do.”
Natalia closed the book.
John Rourke looked at his son. “They don’t know of this—the Ministers? They don’t know what is contained in the diary?”
“I think the old one does—he carries a key. It’s his badge of office. He told me he didn’t know—“ Natalia interrupted. “If this diary has been locked for nearly five centuries, and John opened it by prying the lock with his knife, then why are there fresh scratches near the keyhole?”
Rourke looked at her.
Michael whispered, “He did read it—the old one read it.” John Rourke closed his eyes. He spoke. “The old one you talked of—he revered the diary too much to destroy it. You told him of the aircraft and the pilot. You told him about us—the Retreat. All his life, he thought he’d been carrying out some preordained mission of murder based on some holy book. Now he finds it’s the diary of a murderer and that all he’s been doing is carrying out a tradition of killing the innocent.”
“His mind might—“
Rourke looked at his son. “That weapons vault is the only place they could be—all the people from here. I think I know what we’ll find once we locate it.” And John Rourke felt Natalia hold his right arm very tightly as he picked up the twin stainless Scoremasters from the conference table.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Paul Rubenstein stayed near the inside of the air lock, listening—but there was no sound from outside. Behind him, he heard Madison speak. “The woman with Michael’s father—she cannot be his mother. She is too young. Michael’s father seems too young—he looks almost not at all older than Michael.” Paul looked at her and smiled.
