Into the next small area that leads to the garage, a dark figure moves against the blackness of the windowless room. I stop in my tracks and stay as still as I can. The figure moves toward us, then Father Joseph steps into the light.
“You made it, good,” he says, as he bows his head. “Thank you Lord for Your protection, in His righteous and holy name, Amen.”
When he looks up, his eyes grow wide. “What happened to you?” Father Joseph asks, referring to Gabe’s swollen face.
“I was a human punching bag for someone’s fist. It’s a long story,” Gabe says.
“Come, children, this way,” he says, as he guides us to the garage area. “Did you bring the key?”
“Yes, it’s right here,” I say, pulling it out of my pocket.
“Gabriel, help me with this, please,” he says.
Gabe and Father Joseph struggle to push back an old, broken deep freezer against the wall, revealing a large, black-rubber mat exposed beneath it. Father Joseph pulls back the mat to uncover a flat, metalgray door imbedded into the concrete floor.
There is a lock on the door, which can mean only one thing: this is the basement Finnegan wrote about in his letter, and this is the key that opens it. Without hesitation, I put the key in and turn. My face brightens, and goose bumps run through my body when I hear a click; it’s like opening up a present on Christmas morning. The door is extremely heavy, and the darkness below doesn’t seem too inviting.
I use the light on my phone to see if there are any stairs that lead down this deep dwelling. Underneath the opening, I slide my hand across and locate a light switch. As I click the switch, a trail of illumination unveils a set of steep stairs leading down through a long lit corridor.
As we descend underground, Father Joseph closes the heavy, well-insulated door behind us. I feel like I’m in some kind of post-apocalyptic bunker, waiting for zombies to come pouring out from behind the end of the hall.
While we quietly walk through the long, narrow tunnel, I’m too inquisitive to tolerate this awkward stillness, so I speak up to break the silence. “Did you know about this place?” I say to Father Joseph.
“I have never been down here through this part, but yes, I’ve known about this from your uncle. This was built years ago, about
the time of the first rebellion. There are many tunnels underground connecting government buildings, but this I have never seen,” he says.
Gabe keeps to himself and stays silent while we are walking. I’m not sure what’s going through his mind, but there’s an uneasy expression on his face. I want to say something, but I keep to myself and let him be.
We walk through the concrete tunnel about another hundred yards and come to another gray metal door with yet another lock. I use the same key to unlock the door, but before I open it, I take a deep breath and pause as I look at Gabe. When the door opens, all three of us just stand there in complete shock. I can’t believe what I’m seeing—I’m absolutely numb.
Have you ever wondered what’s in those top-secret government facilities that are supposedly hidden beneath the earth, the ones that create a special kind of fear and excitement from fabricated stories written by conspiracy theorists? What’s impossible has become possible, because I think we just stepped into one.
This underground dwelling holds the most sophisticated testing lab for high-tech weaponry you can imagine. It houses an arsenal fit for an army, and its precision machinery is unmatched by even the best government facility. Three of the ten-foot walls hold every kind of gun imaginable: semi-automatic pistols, revolvers, shotguns, rifles and carbines, assault rifles, submachine guns, and weapons I have never seen before. Just being in this room would get Father Joseph shot. Because Gabe and I are under the age of eighteen, we would be sentenced to slave labor.
Up until about five years ago, gun control was a problem in America. Because too many guns were being put into the wrong hands, provoking fear and widespread shedding of innocent blood, the new regime made it clear that all guns would be banned and that those supplying these weapons would be severely punished; some were imprisoned, but most were executed.
Guns being smuggled in from Mexico stopped the day the border was completely shut off by a specialized group of federal soldiers spanning the entire Mexican-American border, killing anything that threatened to infiltrate the country. The “death fence,” as they called it, was used to separate this border. This electrified fence was charged with enough voltage to kill on contact. Not exactly an ethical means of disconnection, but the government deemed it to be proactively efficient. It was erected from one end of the border of Texas all the way to the other
end in California about ten years ago, before soldiers were deployed to the border.
In the beginning, guns were being confiscated from door to door all over the United States, and those who refused to give up their arms were beaten and sent to labor camps. This heinous course of action propelled the first nationwide rebellion against the new government.
As the insurgence escalated, so did severity of the government’s punishments. Those still with guns were no longer prosecuted or sent to labor camps; instead, they were executed on the spot. Because the death toll was so incomprehensible, the few remaining riots that were left quickly died down, and the final revolt by the American people ceased.
Those left who pledged to keep the right to bear arms relinquished their weapons and accepted the new era. Those who surrendered their guns but refused to submit their loyalty gained no favor from the new regime and were immediately executed. The only firing weapons around are used by federal officers.
On the far wall to the back is a target range, set back about thirty yards. In the middle of the room are metal tables designed to take a beating. Tools of just about every kind lay beneath them. Electronic devices, circuit boards, wiring, and some special kinds of metals are scattered on top of the tables.
There are several bulletproof vests sitting in the corner right below what appears to be a roll of anx-lead mesh. Just as Gabe starts to drool over the tools, a plasma cutter in the other corner catches his eye. With these tools, Gabe’s brain, and these resources, there is no telling what he can create. Just when I think we are done gasping and gawking at this weapons facility haven, I press a button on the far left wall next to the bulletproof vests and part of the wall moves slowly to the side, revealing another room.
I walk in the room and my knees begin to buckle. I clutch onto the side of the wall to brace myself. “Guys, I think I’m going to stay in here for a while. You can stay out there, but I need some time alone with my new friends,” I say as if I’ve been hypnotized.
I don’t think I’ve truly been in love before, but if I have, I didn’t know it. They say it’s the most spectacular, indescribable, deep-euphoric sensation that warms your heart and leaves you overcome by a feeling of serenity. When I look upon the walls, that’s just how I feel at this very moment.
Boldly displayed on the walls are pounds of sharpened steel waiting to be thrown, swung, and wielded by a master swordsman. Every knife, blade, and sword gracefully hanging here is handmade
with masterful precision and perfectly balanced for my hands. But the most eye-popping of them all are the two authentic Japanese katana Samurai swords, signed by Yoshihara Kuniie Saku. If it is fate that we are here, then I was born to wield them.
I carefully take one off display and hold it in a
jodan-gamae
stance, pretending to devour my enemy, striking down in
kesagiri.
Still pretending, I kneel down to my opponent and pray for mercy upon my dead enemy. While other girls pretend to role-play as fairy princesses or delight in a fanciful soiree of dolls during imaginary tea parties for social enlightenment, I am busy pretending to wield my bloody sword into the belly of my foe, conquering the feats of evil and freeing the slaves. Who says I didn’t have an enlightening childhood?
When I’m done with my imaginary fight, I turn around and see Father Joseph and Gabe staring at me with a frightened look on their faces. As I start to get up, they both back up from the door.
“Go ahead, you take all the time you need in here. We’ll just be right outside the door,” says Gabe with a disturbed stare. I place the sword back on the wall, then grab a nice Ka-bar knife with a black sheath, and stuff it into my pocket.
I walk over to the tables next to Father Joseph and Gabe to share my enthusiasm about the swords, but they just look at me like I’m crazy. “What?” I ask. They are staring down at the protruding bulge of the knife.
“I’m not stealing this. It was here for us, right?” I say. “It wants to be used.”
“I do believe she’s got the right idea,” Father Joseph agrees. “Come and sit, Arena, I have much to tell you both.” I can tell by the determined look in his eyes that what he is about to share with us is of great importance.
“About sixteen years ago, I was devoting my time to the seminary, discerning the Lord’s call. There was a day when we were supposed to give witness to our conviction that God had brought us here. Before our time had come, I met a young man in the community who helped me when I was struggling to understand my faith. That man became a lifelong friend who I have trusted to this day. That man was your Uncle Finnegan,” says Father Joseph.
“Finnegan was called to be a priest?” I say, looking a little distraught.
“No, but he was called to do other things to serve our Lord and advance the Kingdom. Before the Lord called me to further my participation in the priesthood, your uncle had left the seminary and became
a deacon in the military. He has since changed his profession, as you know, but his faith has never changed.”
“Did you know our father?” Gabe asks.
“I did, through Finnegan’s relationship with your mother. Every so often, I would visit Finnegan and his sister, your mother, and that’s when I met your father. I first met him on the day your mother went into labor.
“I was there at the hospital when you two were born. I remember that day very well, pacing the halls, praying over your mother. She was having severe complications during labor. Later that evening after you two were delivered, your mother asked me to pray over you both. She looked very distraught and so transfixed upon you two. I didn’t think anything about it and just assumed she was weary from the delivery, but there was something else that was on her mind, something that almost seemed to frighten her.
“Several days went by before I got a call from your father. He told me that your mother was crying ever since she left the hospital and that she wanted to speak with me. When I went to see her, she had a glow about her; her eyes were piercing through me as if I was invisible. She sat up and asked me if I ever had a vision from God before, and if I could interpret the one she had after the two of you were born.
“At that time, I’d never had a vision, much less the ability to interpret someone else’s. I’ve spoken to and heard from the Lord on many occasions, but what she shared with me that day even took me by surprise,” says Father Joseph, as he gazes deep into our eyes.
Now I’m a little frightened, but too curious not to ask. “So what did her vision reveal?”
Father Joseph is trying hard to hold back tears, but he recovers quickly and places his hands on our shoulders.
“Your mother was very strong in the faith, and she always accepted what life arranged for her. She kept a secured covenant with the Heavenly Father to do His will and that she would be blessed beyond the realms of this Earth. She stopped crying and peacefully looked into my eyes with solace, as if God Himself was looking upon me as a father would do with his dying son, and she said to me,
I see a man standing next to my children who are grown. Two angels descend from the clouds. One covers the children with a shield, while the other stands next to them with a flaming sword. The man is dressed in black with markings on his shoulder, seven black stripes covering a blood-red stain. People are covered with fire, and children lay silently on the ground, starving to death.
“She stopped and couldn’t say any more. It seemed too much of a burden for her to carry on with her vision, and I never received any more than that from her, nor did I feel the need to. God had revealed enough. She did, however, tell me one more thing before I left, and to this day I still have a hard time understanding it, yet in a strange way it has strengthened my faith. She told me that she would never get to see her children grow old and that—”
I put my hand on his arm and shake my head. “Please … don’t, I can’t …” My lips shake, as my face is wet from tears. Gabe looks down, and hides any pain he has been suppressing for the last six years while I walk over to the target range. I stand there for what seems like an eternity until my knees give way, and my will to rest on my feet breaks. I fall to my knees, burying my head into the ground, and cry uncontrollably.
Has my time to grieve ended? It’s been six long years, and I have yet to find the strength to stop mourning the loss of my parents.
I have not lost faith in my Father, but I’m beginning to lose interest in my fate. Though devout in my faith, I’m still human, and I just can’t seem to find reason in my parents’ death. My mother and father were deeply rooted in their faith with God and they raised us to be as well. Regardless of our Christian walk, I understand we are to face struggles in our lives, but sometimes it’s just too hard to keep a level perspective when your heart is hardened. I just pray I’m given the strength to endure this pain, and that peace will soon follow.
Father Joseph lets us have our time of grievance. After a moment, I pick myself up, walk over to Gabe, and put my arms around him. “I’m sorry.” I say, my lips quivering
Father Joseph grabs our hands. “There is no shame in weeping, my child. It is your weakness that shows your strength. We must be reminded to surrender to the strength that God provides, for His strength is made perfect in our weakness,” he says, hovering over us.
“Your mother was a very remarkable woman, so much that God gave her two remarkable offspring. I knew there was something extraordinary about the two of you that day at the hospital. The glow in your mother’s eyes, your father kneeling down and praying over you both for hours that night, and one of the most unusual traits that the doctors had ever seen from twins—two identical birthmarks. But it wasn’t necessarily that you both had identical birthmarks in the same place, as extremely rare and special as that is, it was the silhouette of them—perfectly shaped crucifixes, as if God Himself had drawn them and placed them there on the back of your necks.”