Devin pulls into a parking spot. My security detachment takes the two spots to the left of Devin’s vehicle. I nod to them. “Give me some space,” I tell them, which is just a nice way of saying Stay close, but not too close. I want space to think.
“Come on,” he encourages.
I open the door and get out, the crispness of the early morning air pinching my cheeks. I can see my breath, tiny white puffs hovering in front of my mouth.
There is a small wooden door in the side of the adobe wall. It looks like an old Spanish house. There are two guards standing at the door, and they seem to know Devin. They let us pass without questioning us. I take a step inside. There are two rooms separated by an adobe wall. An old sign that reads Gift Shop hangs on the wall, but besides that, the rooms have been cleared out. They are empty, and there are armed National Guardsmen at every door.
“Come on,” Devin says, keeping the mystique going. “This way.”
I follow him through the empty rooms, through a swinging door that opens into a courtyard. There is a beautiful fountain and flowers everywhere, bursts of color enclosed behind pale yellow walls. On the right, a church building stands unapologetically against the early morning sky. There are two small bell towers and, in the center, a stained glass window in the shape of a star.
“Where are we?” I ask, struck by the melancholy silence.
“The Carmel Mission,” Devin replies, watching my face. “It’s been here in one way or another since 1771. The official title is the San Carlo Borromeo de Carmelo Mission.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
Devin grins. “You like it?”
I smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
There is nothing but total silence here. I keep my voice low, struck with a feeling of reverence. I walk through the courtyard, past the church building, and follow a path. There is a cemetery here, filled with the headstones of deceased priests, mission Indians and workers.
“It’s so old,” I whisper. “It’s like time just froze in place here.”
“Places like this,” Devin replies, “are the places that survived the EMP the best. I mean, what adjustments would you really have to make to live here? The walls are still adobe. The garden is the same. The church will always be the church, no matter if there’s electricity or not.”
I pause at the end of the walkway. Little wooden crosses fill the dirt patch on the right hand side of the cemetery. Most of the shrubbery has died here, but there are still trees — old trees.
“Can we go inside the church?” I ask.
Devin nods.
I take the path back to the front of the building and stop at the doors. Two guards stand at the entrance. It is amazing to me how the military presence here is so strong — and yet so silent. No one has said a word to us since we arrived.
This place is sacred.
I stop and turn to the security detachment behind me.
“Wait here,” I say.
I walk through the doors and step into a long, ornate chapel. Old wooden pews stretch from here to an intricately carved backdrop with statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The chapel is lit with dozens of flickering candles.
I pause at the front. A large basin sits on a pillar, filled with holy water.
I hesitate, unsure of how to proceed. Is it a sin to walk inside without washing? I don’t know.
I dip my fingers into the liquid before walking further. Devin remains at the door, watching but never moving. I slowly walk down the center aisle between the rows of pews. The ceiling is lovely, vaulted. It towers above my head, reminding me of the vastness of the sky.
It’s as if this entire place is from another world.
I stop at the end of the church. There are graves marked into the floor here, below the huge iconic carvings. Jesus’ blood runs down the side of his cross, and I swallow.
I am a soldier, and I have killed many men, and yet I have the nerve to stand in a church.
I look at the graves. One of them is marked with the name Junipero Serra. I remember his name from history class, back in elementary school. He was the Father of the missions on the California coastline. I had no idea that he was buried in this place.
I suddenly feel very unworthy of being here.
I take a step backward, overwhelmed with the events of the past few weeks. The Battle of the Grapevine, the rescue mission into Los Angeles, the journey to Sacramento, the carnage of the bombing of the Capitol Building, the disappearance of my father, the Negotiations and the assassination attempts.
I have so much blood on my hands. But I fight for freedom, so am I justified in what I’m doing? Why is standing in a church messing with my head? Hot, salty tears burn in my eyes and I fold my hands together, staring at the Jesus carving.
I whisper, “God, I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
I slowly drop down to my knees and bow my head, overcome with emotion and sadness. I’m not really sure how to pray, so I just stay there, unmoving, silent. Just feeling.
If there’s a God, I pray that he forgives us for this war.
And I pray he lets us win. Or all hope will be lost.
When I turn around, Devin is no longer standing at the entrance to the church. Chris has taken his place. I stand up, going rigid. Like I’ve been caught doing something highly private. I mean… isn’t prayer sacred?
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Chris begins walking inside the church, pausing at the basin of holy water. And then he passes it and continues to stalk toward me. “What’s wrong with you Cassie? Leaving the compound without telling me?”
“I’m a Commander,” I reply. “I go where I want.”
“I noticed.” Chris stops at the tip of the front pew. A muscle is ticking in his jaw, a sign that he is very, very angry. “You have a reason for running off in the middle of the night with your security detachment?”
I swallow, choosing my words carefully.
“I just had to get out for a second, Chris,” I answer. “I needed… this.”
“What? Prayer? Faith?” Chris shakes his head. “You don’t need to leave to find that, and you certainly don’t need to leave with Devin to figure out where your head is.” He stops. “If something was bothering you, why didn’t you come talk to me? You can always talk to me, you know that.”
I give him a look.
“You haven’t been terribly accessible lately.”
“I’m not the one who’s been having the communication problem,” he replies.
I open my mouth, a thousand retorts dancing on the tip of my tongue. I could tell him that yes, this whole thing is his fault. He’s keeping secrets, he won’t tell me he loves me, and he’s been cold since I cornered him about his marriage on the train to Monterey.
But I say nothing, because sometimes that’s the best thing to do.
“So what’s the issue, Cassidy?” Chris demands.
His eyes are ringed with red, a sign of sleepless nights and crushing pressure. He is not himself. The Chris I fell in love with is patient and kind, gentle yet firm.
“What’s not the problem?” I say. My voice echoes in the church. “We’re at war.”
Chris considers this, then holds out his hand.
“You and I don’t have to be,” he answers slowly.
I lean on the wall, flickering candles throwing shadows across our faces.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” I say. “But I don’t want to force you to tell me things that you don’t want to share. I can’t be everything to you all the time. I get that. I just want to be your friend again, at least.”