Perhaps this is how Ages came to a close, with the great terrible picture revealing itself to all.
As with Clancy and Lauren's magic, Frank told them none of the truth about his former life as a Templar. How could he? Even if someone had managed to convince him it was somehow safe to talk about that now—and that would be a hard road to hoe indeed—Frank was just too well drilled at obscuring that life. It had meant safety for the mundanes that knew him, and had kept attention from being directed towards the Order.
So Frank told them about a version of himself. A much less exciting, much more believable version. And with his powers seemingly gone, it was more or less the version that he would live out his life as. However long that might be.
While the sky continued to be a haze of grayish cloud, the temperature started to drop with each passing day. Blankets were provided, along with heavier clothing for those survivors without enough. The 'suits' let them know that more permanent housing options would be made available soon. Many wondered, loudly, why they simply couldn't be driven into the city itself. It seemed mostly intact from where they stood, after all, and supposedly other military personnel were there. No definite answer was ever given.
Frank wondered if the city wasn't as under control as some thought. He wondered how Maggie Chu and her patchwork command were getting on. Better than him, he hoped.
During his wanderings through the camp, Frank also heard camp-dwellers guessing just how it was the new government in Cheyenne was going to get them west. Given the state of the country, a simple vehicle convoy going west seemed too hazardous. No one even considered flying, of course. Other theories were presented.
“A train,” said an older man with a hooked nose and thinning hair to anyone who would listen on one occasion. Frank had leaned against a generator and listened to him.
“A train, I tell you! Big, armored, with a prow like a battleship. Guns all over it. I've heard the soldier-boys talking about it, I swear. It'll pull up to that Amtrak station they got downtown, and whoop! We'll get loaded up and shipped west in bunches. Ain't no squid-head gonna stop that train.”
During another walk, it was boats that a black woman with a crutch had insisted upon.
“My granddaddy used to work on the rivers. Barges. I bet you that's how they'll do it. Barges on the Ohio, to the Mississippi then to the Missouri. No squid-heads on the rivers. I hear they don't like water. As long as they get moving before we start getting ice on the rivers, that is.”
Some didn't think any type of conveyance was going to happen at all.
“Doesn't fucking matter,” growled a sour looking young woman with dark yellow locks peeking out from under a knit cap. “Those folks in Cheyenne got no damned idea what they're doing. I should know; I'm here now because of how well they fixed Maine.”
That had gotten Frank's attention. The girl had grumbled and groused some more as she clutched a paper cup with coffee in it until those listening to her had moved on to find other things to do. She was cross legged on the ground on the side of a parked Army truck, using it to block the wind while it was being unloaded. Frank had crouched down next to her.
“You're from Maine?” She'd glared up at him, sipping from her cup before answering.
“Yeah, I was from Maine. What's it to you?”
“I...had some friends from there, once upon a time. We lost touch. What...what happened?”
“What the fuck do you think happened?” She snarled back, before clamping her jaws shut and shaking her head slowly from side to side.
“Listen, mister, I'm sorry about that. Really. But if you had any friends from Maine, I hope to God they decided to move somewhere else before everything went down.” Frank nodded at her, rubbing his hands together as his breath misted in front of his face.
“But what happened?”
She stared at him, rotating the cup in her hands. Finally she exhaled, her breath coming out in a white cloud also.
“I don't know why—they say the government was trying to stop something awful, something on the coast, but...okay, there's fucking chunks of Maine that are just gone. Sheet of radioactive fucking glass.” She snorted, hugging herself as Frank gawped at her.
“I guess the first few nukes weren't enough.”
It wasn't as if the answer was completely unexpected. Solomon Island had been on borrowed time all along; many had believed those on the rocky island who had survived the initial occult disaster had been dead people walking; they just didn't know it yet. And there had always been a plan by the U.S. Government to 'deal' with Solomon Island in a very quick and permanent fashion.
If that young woman was to be believed, E.X.O.D.U.S hadn't worked out quite the way it was supposed to.
Still, he felt a numbness inside that had nothing to do with the cooling temperatures. Frank had always held out a small sliver of hope that something could have been done for those there. Now that sliver dissolved and drifted away with the wind. They were gone.
Shuffling around another tent, Frank jerked to a surprised halt as he was suddenly in front of the ONPSMI man he'd met during his first week in the camp. Woods. That was his name.
“Hey there,” Woods said cheerfully. Frank fought the urge to narrow his eyes at the man.
“Afternoon,” he replied in a neutral voice. Woods carried on with that same dipshit used car salesman smile anyway.
“So, I couldn't help but over hear you had some friends in Maine. Well, while I don't agree entirely with that young lady's assessment...things did go pretty badly there. Still, I know some people...I could try to find out what happened to your friends, provide some closure at least. Just let me know what their names are...?”
Frank blinked a few times. It was all he could do to not start blurting out names.
Names like Sandy Jensen and Andy Gardener. Old Joe Cajiais. Annabel Usher. And more besides.
He couldn't. He couldn't say those names. The government had quarantined that island; ONPSMI in particular had been on the ground there. Frank had a feeling that no one was supposed to really know those names any more. Or if they did, they'd better have some connection to adjacent parts of Maine they could prove.
Woods was still smiling, expectant.
“Mayweather,” Frank said finally, folding his arms and putting his hands in his armpits for warmth. “Mike and Dottie Mayweather. Lived in Bangor. I appreciate anything you can do for me.”
“Of course! Anything to help, Mister...it's Fred, right? Fred?”
“Frank.”
“Sorry, Frank! Right. I'll let you know what I find out.” He'd then excused himself and moved on. Frank rubbed a hand over his face. Was he being too paranoid?
Was he not being paranoid enough?
Whether or not Woods suspected him of being more than he claimed to be became a less important point for Frank a few minutes later. Over loudspeakers, it was announced that the way west for around eight hundred of them was coming to the camp.
Tomorrow morning.
