Right Behind

They Are Legion, Part Six

2012-01-20T19:41:00.000-08:00

The smell of coffee drifted tantalizingly through my room. Maybe that was what woke me up, even. For a time I just lay there, being awake... but, well, not awake enough to actually move.

There was sunlight on the blankets, and on the wall behind me. It was bright enough that I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. That realization brought me another small step closer to wakefulness, but it was so nice to just lay and drift until I was actually ready to move.

I'd been dreaming about a roller-coaster, I remembered - an improbably massive structure that wound around an entire mountain, and even dipped through tunnels inside. There had been someone... no, that was gone. I couldn't remember anymore. I was too awake.

I sat up at last, cracked my neck, and yawned. My room was the same as always, decorated with posters for a couple of movies and another for the Marine Corps, which I'd briefly considered joining after High School. The bookshelves still held my old favorites, but the computer desk was empty - I'd taken its contents off to college, and left behind an empty shell. I remembered telling my parents that they could do whatever they wanted with my room, but either they hadn't heard me or they'd just decided to leave it alone...

Once things had settled down last night, I'd sent Tina and Mom off to bed and sat down to watch a little television. The news reported looting and other violence. At least some of the violence seemed to be a product of people trying to loot houses and stores that were still occupied. A lot of the rest seemed to be people who were convinced that the world was ending, or just taking advantage of the social disruption. I doubted that the troubles were anywhere near as widespread as the talking heads implied; for one thing, we hadn't seen anything like that around here, and for another the TV news programs had been getting ever more hysterical in their attention-seeking for as long as I could remember. Still, I made a note to go and find a couple of guns in the morning... just in case.

One guy they interviewed said that God had clearly turned His Face from us. Since he knew he was damned, he said, there was no reason not to do all those things that he'd always wanted to do. That was right before the police stuffed him into the back of a patrol car. I found myself reminded, very uncomfortably, of Anna - and I realized that I should call her. Probably not then, though - it was after midnight.

Instead, I'd shut off the television and wandered up to my room. I didn't exactly remember collapsing on the bed, but since I'd woken up there I was prepared to take that part for granted...

Now I paused in the hallway outside the kitchen. I could hear voices inside: Mom and Tina, talking. I stopped where I was, just out of sight. It wasn't a desire to eavesdrop, exactly; it was more that I wanted to know what I was about to walk into. And I wasn't quite awake enough to make conversation myself, so I waited... and listened.

They Are Legion, Part Five

2012-01-12T12:04:00.000-08:00

I told myself a story, about a young man who took an unexpected turn and found a strange set of ruins, where some evil genius had hidden away the world's children and covered his tracks by taking a few of the adults. In this story, the young man found his way into the hidden laboratory, and happened upon a death ray, and destroyed the evil genius and freed the children.

Then I told myself another story, about a young man who woke up imprisoned on a spaceship. He tricked his captors, took control of their weapons, and brought the abducted children - and the others, his own father among them - back to Earth.

That got me as far as Memphis. On the way to Little Rock, I told myself a story about a young man who came home to his father's funeral, and found that he'd inherited a book and a sword: the book to explain what had happened and what was coming, and the sword to fight against it. The Demon Lord commanded powerful forces, but in the end human stubbornness prevailed. With the Demon Lord vanquished, the ties between our worlds were severed - but the dead were still dead, and the missing, missing.

They were vague and grandiose fantasies, though I took some pleasure in filling in the little details: how the ruins look, why the villain had bothered with a death ray, how the aliens differed from humans... It was comforting, to imagine a world where good would triumph and evil would be defeated. It pleasant to think that, with the right combination of wit and insight, things might still be set right. And it was, ultimately, just a fantasy. I knew that, but I indulged it anyway.

I stopped in Little Rock to eat. I don't remember what I ordered. I don't remember my waiter. I don't actually remember eating the food, but I must have done so. I have a vague memory of latching my seatbelt on the way back out of the parking lot. Presumably someone would have stopped me if I'd forgotten to pay...

Mom called me just as I was leaving Little Rock. I pulled over to answer the phone, then assured her that I was fine and still on my way. She said she was glad that I was coming home, and I told her I was, too. And when she was done, I put the phone on the seat and got back on the highway.

It was starting to get dark, and I was tired. But I thought about it, and decided that I'd continue on; I wasn't too tired to drive. (This may not have been the wisest decision I've ever made.) So I drove, keeping the Jeep in its lane and watching the mile markers go past, and eventually I hit Texarkana. An impossibly long time after that, I drove into my parents' house in Grapevine.

By then I'd gotten my second wind, which was a good thing: Mom and Tina were still awake, waiting up for me. I barely made it in the door before they they were holding me. I was worn out from the drive, and maybe still in shock, so all I could do was wait through their tears and their relief, and assure them that I was glad to see them, too.

It was the worst homecoming I ever had.

The Courtship of Meta-Chloe: I did it all for the cookie!

2012-01-11T11:20:00.000-08:00

Cameron was used to Chloe being the more talkative one, and he was resigned to the fact she was probably the more clever one as well. She knew just how to tweak his ego, make him flustered and off-balance. So the drive to the airport was odd and unsettling, but not for the usual reasons.

Chloe was chattering, nerviously at times. It seemed like silence was the last thing she wanted in the car. Buck knew she was anxious, but didn't want to press things. They'd only managed to make up the night before, when she realized his article on the Event was a smokescreen. Things felt good to Cameron, but delicate, and he didn't want to foul anything up before his flight to Isreal.

The treaty signing was confusing. It was obvious that Carpathia had manipulated events to literally turn the entire world against Isreal, but why? He'd been successful, so why seek a treaty now? Cameron was so lost in thought he hadn't registered that Chloe had parked the car and was unloading his luggage from the trunk. Cameron found himself walking briskly to catch up with Chloe as she headed towards the ticket counter.

"Hey, remember me? The one who's actually flying out?"

Chloe blushed and looked embarassed.

"Sorry. I was just nervious that you'd miss your flight, and I didn't want you to be late, and..."

"Woah woah woah! You're with experienced world traveller Buck Williams! We've got enought time to get checked in."

Chloe smiled as his self-depreciating use of the nickname, but she still looked tense and nervious. Cameron got his boarding pass, and they walked along the concourse.

"I overheard you talking with Dad. Carpathia's offered you a job?"

"Not formally, but it looks like it. I don't know if Steve Plank put in a good word, or if he was just impressed by my recent turn to bland propoganda."

"I know you want to help the cause, I know you want to serve the Lord, but last night you said you wanted to protect... people from danger, and I just-"

"Cookies! That's what I want right now!" The conversation was headed for dangerous territory, and Cameron wanted to defuse it as quickly as possible, so he hooked his arm in Chloe's, spun her to the side, and marched into Ms. Fieldsworth's Cookie Shoppe.

"Cameron, could you please be serious for a minute?"

"I am serious, Chloe. Look at this place? There's a Ms. Fieldsworth's Cookie Shoppe in every major airport in the United States, and every airport in Europe, eastern and western!"

Chloe looked at him pleadingly, but Cameron wouldn't slow down or stop to let a word in edgewise.

"I've flown out of a dozen airports in Africa, and there's only two things that all of them had: a Pepsi vending machine, and Ms. Fieldsworth cookies. Once, I was stuck in the North Korean airport for three days; it was Ms. Fieldsworth or kim-chi. At least, I hope it was kim-chi, but I wasn't going to risk it."

"I hope this is important enough to talk about instead of taking a job for-"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it is. I'm flying to Isreal; I hope to interview the Two Preachers, and I'll be standing on a dias next to the Antichrist when he signs a treaty that will start the end of the world as we know it. There aren't a whole lot of things you can count on in this world, even less in the End of Days. Small comforts are important, even better when they're shared..."

Cameron walked up to the counter. A sullen teenager stood with an apron, visor, and nametag. His face was bleak, like so many others. Briefly, Cameron wondered who he had lost in the Event. One parent? Both? A little brother? Cameron blinked, and looked closer; the kid was young, possibly still in high school, but the grief on his face was deep. Maybe it was a son or a daughter he'd lost.

"Excuse me, sir, but I need two oatmeal chocolate chip cookies."

The kid shuffled, bagged the cookies quickly and rang up a total.

"Oh, could I get two bags? One for each cookie?"

The teen had almost no affect at all.

"Store policy is one bag per purchase, sir. I'm sorry..."

Chloe must have noticed the kid's grief, and she piped up.

"Can I get a cookie? What's your favorite kind?" Buck eyed Chloe warily. Had she seen the same grief he had?

Chloe happily bought the cookie, removed it from the bag, and handed it back to the kid behind the counter with a quick peck on the cheek before leading Cameron out of the store.

"What? He looked like he needed a pretty girl to cheer him up a little. Here's your extra bag. Now what's with the cookies?"

"I wish I could share more time with you. But since I can't, I'll share what I can."

"Medeocre baked goods found across the globe?"

"When I eat this," Cameron gestured with the cookie, "it's something I know is real, something I know wherever in the world I am, it's there. I know faith is supposed to provide that for me, but faith doesn't come with a little sugar rush between meals. When I eat this particular cookie, sometime while I'm in Isreal, I'll let you know, so you and I can share a snack, even if I'm on the other side of the world."

"Bucky... I think you're trying to make eating a cookie over the phone sound romantic..."

"Is it working?"

"...let's get you to your plane, Bucky."

They Are Legion, Part Four

2012-01-06T22:00:00.000-08:00

There really wasn't much left to do. I'd put most of my stuff in storage before Anna and I went camping, and it took very little time to load the last few bags and boxes into the Jeep. It would have been nice to stop and eat, but I didn't want to keep my family, and Mom in particular, waiting any longer than necessary. I could find a drive-through on the way...

I called again when I was on the road. I didn't stay on the phone for long; I didn't like talking while I was driving, and this seemed like a good time to stay alert. I just told them that I'd left, and when I'd call next. Tina told me to be careful, which was advice I didn't need.

The trip was remarkably uneventful, though. I mean, the end of the world is supposed to involve massive chaos, right? The highways should be littered with wrecks, city streets should be full of rioters or looters or partiers, and bands of cold-eyed survivors should be retreating to the wilderness with canned food and extra ammunition. Instead, I got... nothing. If anything, traffic was lighter than usual. But the roads were neither empty nor blocked with wrecked and abandoned vehicles.

From Sewanee, Tennessee to Grapevine, Texas is about thirteen hours by car. Call it fourteen, since you'll want to make stops for gas, food, and sanity. The easiest route goes up to Nashville, then swings down through Memphis, Little Rock, and Texarkana. I found an eighteen-wheeler doing a respectable speed on the highway, and settled in behind him. Eventually, he turned off, and I found another. Their presence was reassuring: it meant that an awful lot of our economy was probably still in place. I didn't need to be spot-welding weapons-mounts to the outside of the Jeep just yet.

I left the radio off. For a while I tried listening to one of my playlists, but it clashed with my mood and after a while I shut it off. So there I was, following the big trucks, driving in silence.

And realizing that my father was dead.

It didn't seem real. I couldn't make it real. Dad was a vibrant, living figure - he couldn't be dead. Not dead dead. He was still fixing up that old Karmann Ghia, for fuck's sake. No way he could die before he had it working again. It just wasn't possible.

I could imagine a world without my father in it, sort of, abstractly. I mean, I'd been in college in another state for three years, now. Yeah, I came home for summers and holidays, but holiday visits were just visits, and summers were always a shock. My parents were trying to figure out how to handle a kid who was basically out on his own, and I was trying to adjust to having parents again. So the idea of not seeing my dad wasn't all that strange. I spent a lot of my time not seeing him.

The idea that he wasn't out there, anymore... that it wasn't just that I wasn't seeing him, it was that he was really gone... That was something else altogether. I couldn't process it.

And after a while I gave up trying. I thought about Anna for a little bit, and realized that I should call her... and then realized that I wasn't sure if I wanted to. We balanced each other in some important ways, but her insistence that the disappearances had been The Rapture... and that we'd missed it... was strange and unwelcome. It made me realize that maybe I didn't know her as well as I'd thought I had. That maybe we weren't as... connected... as we'd thought we were.

But that was something else I wasn't ready to deal with. So I left it alone and kept driving, losing myself in the simple act of keeping the car on course. I wasn't thinking so much as waiting, letting my brain absorb the new information and giving it time to adapt, to formulate new responses.

They Are Legion, Part Three

2012-01-03T21:42:00.000-08:00

My mom answered on the second ring. I'd been considering what she most needed to hear, so when she said, "Hello," I said:

"Mom, it's James. I'm still here. I'm fine."

There was a brief, choked sob, and then a moment of silence. I said, "Hello?" but nobody answered.

I tried again: "Hello?"

Then I heard my sister's voice: "James?"

I said, "Yes... are you guys all right?"

"Jesus," said Tina, "We thought you were dead, too. Why didn't you call us?"

Something cold and tight curled in from my shoulders and settled in my guts. "I was camping. There's no reception. What do you mean, you thought I was dead, too?"

There was a long pause. Then Tina said, "It's Dad." She hesitated, but I didn't say anything. I couldn't. "There was an accident. The driver beside him disappeared. The car drifted into his lane, pushed him off the road. He's... dead."

You hear that, Anna? I thought. It's not the Rapture. Because if that was the Rapture, your God just murdered my dad.

There was sound of fumbling, and then my mom was speaking into the phone. "James? James, honey? You have to come home. You should be with your family."

"I'm on my way," I told her. "I'll call you when I'm on the road. I love you."

"I love you," said Mom, and cut off the call.

They Are Legion, Part Two

2012-01-02T21:38:00.000-08:00

A park ranger picked us up not five minutes after we got back to my Jeep. We'd left the parking area beside the trail head, but we hadn't even made it back to the main road. He filled us in a little - told us that there had been mass disappearances, world-wide, and that nobody was sure what had really happened - but mainly he took down our names, addresses, and family information. He said he was going to radio it in, so someone could put it in the big national database that everyone was using to search for missing family. It was something that FEMA had come up with, apparently.

The radio wasn't much help. Everyone broadcasting assumed that everyone else knew as much as they did. They didn't give us any new information about what had happened, and we didn't understand the significance of what they did have to say. It wasn't until we got back to campus and found my roommate, Andrew, that we could get any real information about what had happened while we were away.

And that was when Anna realized - or decided - that we'd been left behind. The Rapture, she said, had come. Jesus had claimed His own, taking them directly to Heaven to avoid the judgements that were about to be poured out upon the Earth.

And I, in my usual I'm-withholding-judgement-until-I-get-more-and-better-information way, said: "That doesn't seem very likely."

It didn't occur to me until much later that Anna would see that as a slap at her beliefs, or that she considered those beliefs so personal that rejecting them was rejecting her. She just went very still, the way she does when she's angry but doesn't want to show it, and then she told me that she was going to find her parents, and that Andrew and I should do the same.

And then she left. It seemed a little abrupt, but I didn’t think much about it at the time. We’d just found out about a disaster, she needed to check on her family, and we’d been together all weekend; of course she’d want to get going. I wanted to get going, too.

So I went back to my room, and picked up my cell phone, and called home. And what I learned then made me forget all about what Anna and I had said to each other.

They Are Legion, Part One

2011-12-30T13:18:00.000-08:00

What if the Rapture came, and you missed it?

I'm not talking about being "left behind." That's all of us, everyone who's left on Earth. All the people who looked around and realized that their children were gone, all the people who looked up and realized that the car beside them suddenly had no driver, all the people who came home to empty beds or empty houses or empty neighborhoods.

But there were some of us who missed the whole thing. I, for example, had taken a couple of days off after Finals to go camping with my girlfriend. Two college students all alone in the woods at the end of their Junior year: you can imagine what all we we were doing. Maybe that's why we got left behind. Maybe, and maybe not.

Anna, you see, is very bright in her way. She can grasp complex ideas, do equations in her head, and memorize things in ways that I can't even begin to match. Unfortunately, she tends to take any idea she's given, and run with it. I'm smart in other ways; I can speak English, Spanish, and French (and read a fair amount of Latin), and I tend to withhold judgement and not take things at face value. Mine is the sort of intelligence that wants to do a lot of research, look for origins and evidence and support, and tends to ask uncomfortable and unwelcome questions.

That may be why Anna was still a Christian (nominally, at least) while I was... not. On the other hand, we came back from our trip to discover that everyone - everyone - under the age twelve had disappeared, along with a fair amount of the adult population... and the adult statistics skewed heavily to certain strains of Christianity. Nobody knew how heavily, because nobody can organize a census that quickly, but even the preliminary, anecdotal information was fairly convincing. When the police department notices that eighty percent of their missing persons calls concern members of a certain church, and further investigation can locate only four or five people from a congregation of over one hundred, that's pretty convincing. So maybe I shouldn’t consider my disbelief a product of my intelligence, if you see what I mean.

And yes, I know that everyone who's reading this now has been through it themselves, and remembers how it happened. I'm not writing this part down for you. I'm writing it down for our children, if we have any, if the world lasts that long. If there's one thing you learn studying history, it's just how much information gets lost. It's frightening how fast knowledge can disappear - a generation, maybe less, if it isn't needed or isn't wanted.

So that's what happened to us: we went into the woods, and when we came out the world had changed.

Just When Things Are Going Right Part III by Rev Apoc

2011-10-23T10:51:00.001-07:00

Judd loved the feeling of Mona’s hair in his hands. They’d been making out for a while, and he was in a good mood even though his beer buzz was fading away. A girl’s voice startled them as Judd realized another girl on the cheerleading squad was trying to get Mona’s attention.

“Mona, we gotta go! You told me you promised your parents you’d be home at midnight or they’ll ground you!”

Judd and Mona broke the kiss and looked at the girl. Mona looked at her watch and gasped. “Eleven forty-five! Shoot!” She looked at Judd apologetically and said, “I’m really sorry for stopping like this, okay?”

Judd, a bit put out by the end of the great make-out session he’d been having, tried to hide it as he gently squeezed Mona’s shoulder and said, “Yeah, you don’t want to get in trouble. Maybe next time.”

Mona smiled briefly, got off Judd and stood up to quickly straighten out her outfit and hair before retrieving her purse from her friend, saying, “Thanks, Rachel.” She rummaged around in her purse and scribbled something on a scrap of paper.

She turned to Judd and said, “I like you; maybe we can go out sometime, huh?”

He grinned and said, “Yeah. I live about a ten-minute walk from here. What about you?”

Mona replied, “Just at the house facing this cul-de-sac, actually. But I really have to go so I can get home in time, okay?”

Judd smiled. “Just leave the Bible alone next time, okay?”

Mona nodded sheepishly, handed the piece of paper she’d been holding to Judd, then waved goodbye as she rushed off with her friend.

After realizing Mona had given him her phone number, Judd found he was more tired than he expected. He looked around and noticed someone had turned down the music. As well, the lights had been turned down and there were people sprawled on the floor, either sleeping or cuddling with each other in their own little worlds.

He needed to go to the bathroom, so he struggled out of the easy chair and wended his way through the living room and found a bathroom in a little hallway just off the entry foyer. After he was finished, he yawned and looked at himself in the mirror; he noticed some of Mona’s lipstick was still on his lips. He tried scrubbing some of it off with a tissue and some water, but it was pretty tenacious.

Judd decided to return to the easy chair. He snuggled into the easy chair, deciding he just needed a few minutes of rest before he’d get up and go home.

He closed his eyes, and a few minutes turned into several hours.

===

Vicki was starting to feel tired, which she thought was unfair considering she and Shelley were having the time of their lives.

“Shel?” she asked softly.

Shelley stopped nuzzling Vicki’s neck and looked up. “Sorry, am I doing something wrong?”

Vicki smiled. “No, it’s okay. It’s just… I’m getting kinda tired. Are you?”

Shelley looked disappointed, but before she could answer, she yawned, provoking Vicki’s own yawn.

Shelley said, “I guess that’s our answer.” She hesitated, then put her hands on Vicki’s hips. “Look, I know I needed to get seriously liquored up to even tell you what I wanted, but I just… I didn’t know how to tell you any other way. Do you think less of me for it?”

Vicki kissed Shelley on the forehead and brushed her hand through her friend’s hair. “No, I don’t. Look, I’m happy you told me; that’s all that matters.”

Shelley sighed. “Well, now we’re kinda stuck. There’s no way we can get home at this hour. You wanna sleep here or try to find a bed?”

“Let’s sleep here. The carpet’s pretty soft. We can probably just stretch out and lie down if we’re careful.”

After a couple of minutes, the two girls had managed to get themselves in the right positions when Vicki rermembered the light. “Shit. Shel, I’ve gotta turn this off. You gonna be okay in the dark?”

“Yeah. I’m with you,” she replied.

Vicki snickered. “No pressure, then.” She scrambled up, yanked the chain, then carefully felt around the room to make sure she didn’t hit her friend as she laid down on the carpet next to Shelley, who cuddled into her arms to sleep.

It wasn’t long before Vicki also fell asleep, content with the world.

-

Someone was shaking Judd’s shoulder. He half-heartedly batted the hand away, mumbling, “Lemme sleep s’more.”

“Come on, Judd! I need to clean up around here, okay? Your dad’s probably really pissed ‘cause you stayed out, too.” Jason’s anxious expression convinced Judd to acquiesce; it wasn’t like Jason had to know he didn’t really care.

Judd tried to get up, and moaned as he tried to open his eyes wider than a squint. He whined, “Light hurts, Jase.”

Jason muttered, “Shit. Be right back.” Within a minute, he shoved a couple tablets into one of Judd’s hands and in the other, forced him to grasp the cup of water tightly. Judd mechanically went through the routine of chasing down the Tylenol with the water. He handed the cup back after emptying it, and let Jason help drag him out of the chair so he could stand up.

Judd yawned, scratched his head, and tried to ignore the fact that he felt like he had a cold. He half-stumbled out of the living room, and ran into some of his teammates. They mumbled greetings to each other, and Daniel agreed to drop Judd off at his place. Daniel drove slowly in his expensive sedan, and Judd was thankful nobody felt like talking.

The first thing that struck Judd after he let himself inside his house, was that, for it being nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, the house was eerily quiet.

Usually his dad was up, getting the coffeemaker ready and making breakfast if his mother wasn’t downstairs first and making it.

Maybe they just slept in, thought Judd as he grabbed some cereal and a bowl, deciding he’d watch some TV.

===

Vicki’s first impression was of darkness with only a sliver of light coming from near her head. A human body was next to her, and the girl was breathing steadily. Startled, Vicki tried to sit up, only for her head to start pounding as memories began filtering back into her head.

She gasped, relieved, as she realized she’d just been sleeping in Shelley’s arms, and then a slow smile made its way across her face as she remembered how Shel had so nervously come out to her, and their mutual attraction had led to a pretty hot make-out session.

But now they had to find their way home, and she needed to get a light turned on in this damn closet.

Vicki carefully stood up and opened the closet door to let the daylight in. She squinted against the harsh light and her headache got worse. She reached down and shook Shelley’s shoulder. “Shel? Hey, wake up.”

Vicki helped her friend stand up, and she thought from Shelley’s pale appearance that she must be even more hung-over than Vicki was.

Shelley’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Vicki? Did we… y’know….” She couldn’t meet Vicki’s eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve never done anything with a girl before, either. We just made out, honestly. And kissed a lot.”

“Okay,” replied Shelley softly.

In an upbeat tone, Vicki said, “C’mon, let’s get outta here. Our purses are downstairs.”

They passed other people stirring and preparing to leave. Vicki snickered as two guys blanched upon exiting a room when they saw the girls, She just hissed, “Hurry! Get going!” to them, and they took off, adroitly avoiding the few people sprawled on the spiral staircase going down to the foyer. She murmured to Shelley, “See? There’s more people like us if you look.”

The two girls walked quietly to the closet they’d gone to before, and found their purses. Luckily, nothing had been stolen. As they passed by the kitchen, Shelley saw Jasmine starting up some breakfast and said, “Oh, God, that coffee smells so good. Jason’d better appreciate this!”

Jasmine winked and whispered, “Oh, he will.” She looked more closely at Shelley, then at Vicki, and said, “You two better get some water. You look kinda peaked.”

After getting the water and guzzling an entire glass, Vicki almost wanted to ask to stay, but realized if Jason was here, so was that Judd guy, and she didn’t really want to hang around some rich kid’s house being looked at like she might go wild and break something. She wasn’t a freaking rabid dog, for crying out loud. She put her water glass by the sink and tugged Shelley’s arm. “We better go.”

Just as the two girls were about to leave the house, a guy who Vicki figured for a soph rushed up to them and said, “Have you seen Amanda? She isn’t here! She was on the couch with me when we went to sleep.”

Wordlessly, Vicki and Shelley looked at each other and shrugged. Vicki said, “We probably don’t know her, but what’s she look like?”

“Golden brown hair, um, kinda your height, I guess. She was wearing a party dress.”

Shelley said, “What color? ‘Party dress’ doesn’t tell us squat.”

The guy scratched his head and said, “Golden yellow.”

Vicki shook her head. “I think I saw her last night, probably when we were dancing. Didn’t see anyone like that this morning, though.”

The guy paled and moaned, “I must have really offended her or something. Oh, damn!”

He pushed past them and ran out the front door before the girls could find out more. Vicki rolled her eyes and said, “If I had a dime for how many people’ve walked out on each other after screwing I could buy one of these houses.”

The girls, walking slowly along the sidewalk in the early spring sun, only had the first inkling that something was wrong as they passed one of the large houses with a well-manicured lawn.

The Courtship of Meta-Chloe, part-troi

2011-09-26T19:43:00.000-07:00

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind for Cameron. He ran through as many interviews as he could for the story, sifting and sorting. Whenever he could, he did the interviews on-line or by phone, spending the rest of his free time studying the specially marked Bible Rayford had given him, or meeting with Rayford's pastor, Bruce. And whenever he could, he attended Sunday services and bible study. It wasn't entirely religious devotion... there was one other regular attendee he looked forward to seeing each time.

When the GW article finally went to press, Cameron was able to breathe a huge sigh of relief. He had to re-write large parts of it just hours ahead of the deadline, and he wrestled long and hard with that decision. The pastor had actually been fairly helpful, though he did tend to eye Chloe at bible study ever since.

That relaxed feeling vanished the very next Wednesday. Chloe was conspicuously absent from the prayer study, and when asked, Rayford just looked sheepish and embarrassed. (then again, Rayford looked sheepish a lot, in Cameron's opinion) Buck spent half the meeting writing a note for Rayford to give his daughter, but even simple writing gets tricky if you know that the father of the girl you're sweet on will be reading the note, and reading it first.

Cameron was too nervous to attend the Sunday service, plus with his boss jumping ship to work for Carpathia, things were starting to slip around the office. But when he showed up for the mid-week prayer group, and Chloe still wasn't there, he started getting really confused. Rayford somehow picked up on that, and told Cameron to ride back to his house.

Rayford walked Cameron up to the door, then gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

"She's out back, on the porch. She's really mad at you."

"She wants to talk to me?"

"She doesn't know I brought you here, but she's mad, and you don't know what it was that you did to make her mad, and she's not the type to go calling, so you go back there and figure all this out with her. Now, go!"

Read the rest

A solid slap on the shoulder sent Cameron stumbling through the house, towards the back porch. Chloe was sitting on a bench, smoking when she heard the door open. She quickly ducked the cigarette out of sight before she realized it was Cameron.

"Oh Bucky, come to apologize have you?"

"I'm... not sure what I have to apologize for, but I did sent you a note. And I did try to send you some flowers."

"Hmmph. They were trashy flowers."

"Yeah, well... I kinda picked 'em myself. Seems all the florists were either closed, or sold out for all the... um, remembrance ceremonies. Sorry you didn't like them, but isn't that enough of an apology for - "

Chloe started to blush, then flushed with anger.

"Are you kidding! Flowers you were so cheap you picked doesn't even come close to what you did!"

"OK... I'm going to sound a little stupid here-"

"Hah!"

"... but what did I do?"

Chloe sneered, grabbed a book bag from under the porch, and pulled out the latest copy of "Global Weekly"

"What could the cause of these mysterious disappearances be? asks Global Reporter Cameron "Buck" Williams", Chloe read in a mocking tone, shifting to a hick drawl, "I think it was the great Christian God, taking away the innocent and the virtuous before the final battle with Satan says airline pilot Ray Steele, expressing a common fear of the supernatural..." Chloe flung the magazine at the already-cringing Buck.

"I know my dad isn't as well-spoken or educated as a world-flying reporter, but how dare you mock him! You know the truth, know that he's telling the most important truth that anyone on this planet today can ever hear! And you put him next to a neck-beared UFO-ologist! Oh, and it's an extra-nice touch to mention his job, because if there's one thing that goes over well at airlines is newspaper articles suggesting their pilots might be mentally unstable or just plain stupid! He's had to walk into work for almost a week and act like he isn't under a microscope. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"YES, ACTUALLY," Cameron barked back, his voice slowly trailing off," I do know what I've done."

Cameron shut his eyes for a moment and balled his hands. He was trembling with anger, sudden and unexpected. When he opened his eyes again, Chloe looked slightly shocked, but was also biting her lower lip. Cameron took a deep breath.

"I was in Botswana. I was supposed to be there for a story about AIDS medications donated from major pharmaceuticals. I was at a bush bar, when a villager, half-drunk, approached me. God knows how a scrap of my picture found its way there, but he knew I was a reporter. He gave me a lead on a story about-"

"Child prostitution." Chloe cut him off. "The sex trafficking story?"

"You've read it?" Cameron's mental balance was thrown; it was becoming a common occurrence around Chloe.

"...while I was waiting for the story with my dad to go to press, I decided to do a little reading up on your work. Which, might I say, tends to be better than this last-"

"Hey! Please, let me finish. Yes, it was about a sex trafficking network backed by former military. It was an important story, it needed to be told. But once the story broke, the mercs went looking for someone to blame. The harassed everyone I had been seen talking to. Every person at every hotel I stayed at, every cab driver, everyone. The guy at the bar? He was half-drunk because his niece was missing. He didn't know how not to draw attention. We talked at the bar, in plain sight of a dozen people."

"They found him?" Chloe asked, already sick from suspecting the end of the story.

"Of course they found him. And yes, they killed him. One of the first rules of journalism is that you must protect your source!"

Cameron waited to see if Chloe was putting the pieces together. He couldn't tell, so he went on.

"I was researching a story on 'The Event' and the vanished persons. I wound up doing over forty interviews with scientists, religious leaders, politicians, and kooks on the Internet. While everyone could find out who I talked to, anyone looking closely would find out I was spending a lot of time at a certain church..."

Chloe blinked a few times, and looked down. Cameron was sure she was thinking it through to the conclusion, but kept going.

"Nicolae Carpathia gets elected SecGen of the U.N., gets all kinds of absurd agreements signed, and Bruce thinks he's the AntiChrist. If I used Global Weekly to shout from the rooftops, I'd be killed or taken away in a black van. And then those thugs would do the same thing thugs did in Botswana, what thugs always do. And that would mean they would come here, and they would take you, and..."

Chloe's face paled halfway through Cameron's speech, but by the end, she was staring intently at his face. She heard the catch in his voice, saw the despair on his face... Cameron wasn't hurt at the idea of 'thugs' hurting Bruce or Rayford or anyone else at New Hope.

Buck drew a heavy sigh, and pressed on: "So Ace Reporter Bucky Williams writes... a bland article leaning heavily on the U.N. propaganda about radiation, acting as a mouthpiece for an official explanation. I'm sure my old boss is pleased by that, but I know any of my peers that read that article will think I've been feebleminded."

"Isn't that a spell in Dungeons & Dragons?"

Buck twitched like he'd be struck, looking confused and slightly embarrassed as he glanced over at Chloe. How did she know that I played... Buck flushed as he realized he didn't know until he gave it away just now.

Chloe got up off the bench and walked over to Cameron.

"You did a very noble and good thing. And you don't owe me any apologies. I owe you one for jumping to conclusions. I just wish you'd give me and Dad a little heads-up."

"Oh. OK. I, um... well, it was a last minute change really. But um... look, since I missed you -er missed seeing you last Sunday and you weren't at Bible Study group, would you..."

"Yes, Bucky?"

"...see me off at the airport? I have to fly out tomorrow morning, but if that's all the time I have for a while, I'd like to spend it with you."

She twisted her lips around in a smirk. "Just don't ask me to carry your luggage."

Just When Things Are Going Right Part II by Rev Apoc

2011-09-11T10:48:00.000-07:00

Vicki and Shelley got off the bus and began making their way to Jason Devlin’s house. Not wanting to keep gawking at the well-lit nice houses and fancy grass lawns in the evening twilight, Vicki said, “How do you even know this guy anyway? They usually don’t like us trailer kids showing up, you know.”

Shelley waved her hand. “Oh, friend of a friend kinda thing. I know a girl who has a kind of off-and-on thing with him. She’s the one who told me about this party, actually.”

“We had to spend half an hour on that stupid bus stopping at like every intersection along the way here, Shel. I’m gonna be so choked if they don’t let us in to at least get a beer,” groused Vicki.

They were coming up to the large house which took up the entire end of a cul-de-sac. The windows blazed with light and the girls could see several shadows in them, showing that tha party was starting to get going. Shelley brushed Vicki’s hair back and said, “Don’t worry about it. With that red hair and that lipstick you’re a bombshell. Just flash your boobs or something.”

Vicki, stunned, burst out laughing. Shelley, after a moment, joined in and the two girls had to hold each other up as they got themselves under control.

Vicki studied Shelley’s outfit closely. Her friend was wearing the only high heels she owned, and she was dressed in a skin-tight one-piece black dress. Shelley had put on some make-up and brilliant red lipstick.

Shelley seemed to notice and said, “Is something wrong?”

Vicki stopped, looked at the house pensively and rubbed her hands on her shirt. “No. Just… how do I look? Okay?”

“You look great, honestly. I already told you that back at the trailer park. Just be careful, though; that white T-shirt looks like it might pop if you try buttoning it up all the way. And that skirt! I’d like to borrow it from you sometime. It shows off your legs.”

Vicki fleetingly wondered if that compliment was Shelley trying to tell Vicki something. Feeling a bit more fortified, she grinned and said, “Babe, this shirt? That’s the general idea. C’mon.”

She tugged at her friend’s arm and walked up to the outsized front door.

Luckily, nobody threw them out, and after pressing their way through the small groups of people that had formed in the hallways, Shelley and Vicki were able to grab two cups of beer from the guys manning a long table with a couple of kegs sitting on it.

“Woohoo!” yelled Vicki as she knocked her cup against Shelley’s. She took a healthy gulp, feeling the liquor going down her throat. Shelley, gasping from the cold beer herself, nodded and said, “Pretty good stuff this time.”

Vicki’s purse shifted, and she smacked her forehead. “Shit! What do we do with our purses?”

“Goddamnit,” swore Shelley as she looked around. Vicki followed her gaze as it locked onto a brown-haired guy standing next to a table with a lamp on it in the large living room. He was talking with a cute black-haired guy who she thought she remembered from the basketball team, but his name escaped her.

Shelley tugged her along, and when she was within talking distance, she said, “Jason! Remember me? Shelley? Jasmine’s friend?”

He blinked and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Um, whaddya need?”

“I’ve gotta put my purse somewhere safe, and so does my friend Vicki.”

Vicki locked eyes with the black-haired guy, and she noticed he had dark brown eyes, like her. Right now, though, he seemed to be regarding her a bit distantly.
. Damn it, just because I didn’t grow up in a fancy house like this, thought Vicki furiously.

She hid it all behind a fake smile and an insincere, “Hi.”

The black-haired guy nodded brusquely and Jason took the strain off the meeting by suddenly recalling a small closet in the back of the house. He led Vicki and Shelley away from the family room and through an extremely nice-looking dining room (which, luckily, had been cleared of anything breakable, Vicki noticed) and into a corridor. There, Jason stopped them and said, “If you keep going down this hallway, you’ll end up in the garage. Here, just put your purses in this closet here.”

He opened a closet which had a few coats in it, and had nothing on the floor. The two girls put their purses on the floor and then went back to rejoin the groups of people and see if they knew anyone from school they could hang out with.

===

Jason rejoined Judd and said, “Hey. You okay?”

“Why trailer chicks, Jase?” He gestured with his beer at the girls who’d just left. They were kind of cute, but dating one? Kiss of death at school.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Come on. Look, I’ve sort of known Shelley off and on and she’s all right. I mean,Jasminesays she’s a nice girl, and Jas isn’t trailer trash. You’d think she’d know if anyone from the trailer park was just a total skank, man.”

Judd waggled his eyebrows. “I’m sure between the sheets she’s nice, too.”

“Hey, shut up,” replied Jason, chuckling. “Look, I’m gonna put on some music and go find Jas. You find a girl to chat up or something, people see us hanging around all night they might start wonderin’ what’s up.”

Judd found a cluster of his basketball teammates; just as he did so, the music began loudly playing and they all had to bellow at each other to be understood. Judd began thinking the only worthwhile thing was the beer, which never seemed to stop flowing.

An impromptu dance floor had been created in the center of the living room, and Judd saw that Jason and Jasmine were dancing. He felt a bit jealous that he didn’t have a girlfriend with him at the moment, though he was pretty sure he’d seen a couple of girls at the party checking him out, one of them a blond cheerleader he spotted on the other side of the room.

Judd, concentrating on moving between the people to chat up the cheerleader, didn’t quite see where he was going and nearly bumped into the redheaded trailer girl, who had to steady herself by putting her hand on his chest for a moment. He flushed in embarrassment and bellowed, “Sorry!”

She nodded, gripped her fresh beer more carefully, and yelled back, “It’s fine!”

As she trailed her way through the crowd, Judd couldn’t help but follow her with his eyes. That red hair really made her stand out. And she knew how to show off what she had, that was for sure.

Shaking his head, he muttered, “Kiss of death, kiss of death…”

===

Shelley handed her back the cup of beer she’d just downed half the contents of, and Vicki took a sip, noticing with some concern that it was already getting harder to stand up straight.

Vicki had to admit the black-haired guy, whose name she learned was Judd Thompson, was pretty hot up close. He had a nice set of muscles under that shirt of his, that was for sure. But damn it, he’d never end up with her except for a quickie if he was super drunk and super horny. Shelley had told her of the Football Bastard, Geoff, who’d just looked right through her the day after they’d slept together.

So why did Vicki keep thinking there might be some hidden depths to that Judd guy?

She decided to quit wasting her time, and said, “C’mon, Shel, let’s dance! Who cares what the rest of these idiots think.”

Her friend’s grin prompted her to grin, too, as they made their way to the dance floor and began dancing to the pounding beat. Vicki loved seeing the way Shelley put her moves together, and she knew she could pull off moves just as good. Smirking as more and more boys started looking at her, she kept up the pace as the music kept playing.

===

The blond cheerleader’s name was Mona. Judd said, “So what’s that you’re wearing?” He wondered what the white blousy skirt thing was.

She beamed. “This thing? A Jersey dress. You like it?” She winked.

“Yeah, I like it. So you’re the team captain, or what?” Judd fleetingly noticed the red-headed girl dancing with her friend, and several of his basketball teammates looking on with envy. He reluctantly turned his attention back to Mona.

Mona drank a bit of beer and said, “Nah, I’m co-captain. So me and Liz, we have to argue over what moves and dances we’ve got to put on and then choreograph it all for the rest of the team.”

Judd thought she looked good. She had cute hazel eyes and was fairly tanned, which spoke of many hours outside the gym, practicing cheerleading routines.

He looked around and spotted the easy chair someone had just vacated. “Hey, wanna sit down?”

Mona grasped Judd’s arm and said, “Okay, but I’m not sitting in your lap – yet.”

Judd sat in the chair while Mona sat on the arm. He thought it wasn’t too uncomfortable to look up at her, but wished she hadn’t put her butt so close to his arm. He fiddled with his beer cup in his lap as Mona took a large drink. She then put her empty cup on the nearby table, which already had several other plastic cups on it surrounding the lamp.

Mona’s hand on his shoulder surprised him. “So, Judd, what about you? Basketball, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m a power forward.”

“Cool. When’s the next game?”

Judd, intrigued, said, “I thought football cheerleaders didn’t go to basketball games.”

Mona giggled. “Oh, come on, Judd. Not like there’s a law against it, is there? Now tell me, when’s the next game? I’ll cheer for you specially.”

“Couple of weeks. We’re playing against the senior varsity team.”

“Isn’t that kind of out of your league? You guys’re JV, right?”

Judd nodded. “It’s kind of a warmup, but whoever wins kinda has bragging rights for a while, especially if it’s us ‘cause eighteen-year-olds are taller and stronger, usually.”

“Hmm.”

Judd hesitated, then put his arm around Mona’s waist. He said, “C’mon, have a seat now?”

She didn’t shake his hand off, which Judd thought was a good thing. Mona seemed to think for a few moments, then said, “Okay. But if you try anything—”

“I won’t, I promise,” replied Judd. “I just, um, think you’re cute.”

Mona carefully sat in Judd’s lap, shifting so she could see him. Luckily, the easy chair was wide enough to let her sit at an angle, and she put her arm around his shoulders.

She said into his ear, “I think you’re cute, too.”

Judd relaxed and tried not to focus too much on his hand now resting between Mona’s shoulder blades. She smelled nice, too.

A slow dance number came on, and Judd looked up, seeing the red-haired girl and her friend walk off the dance floor. They looked around furtively, and then left in the direction of the stairs. Judd knew there were several rooms on the second floor. He wondered if they were going to find some guys.

His attention came back to Mona as she said, “You go to church or anything like that?”

The music was just quiet enough that Judd and Mona could talk in low voices and be heard.

Judd laughed. “You’re asking that at this party?”

She shrugged. “Why not? The Bible tells us our ancestors drank beer and danced and still praised the Lord.”

“Not to hear my parents tell it, that’s for sure,” groaned Judd.

Mona gestured at the other people. “To be fair, this normally wouldn’t be the time or place. But…”

Her face grew pensive. “I’ve just got a feeling something’s going to happen tonight, and I thought I should at least try to reach out.”

Judd laughed and said a bit harshly, “Reaching out? So it’s flirt to convert, huh?”

Mona, distressed, shook her head and replied, “Heavens, no! Look, I… oh, this is coming out all wrong. I’m sorry. Please, forget about it.”

She looked so sincerely apologetic and flustered that Judd had a hard time staying upset.

“It’s okay. I just get it from my parents, too, so I probably was ruder than I should’ve been,” Judd conceded.

Mona seemed relieved. She said, “Now, believe it or not, but Christians do know how to have fun; lemme show you.”

She leaned over and kissed Judd, who gladly opened his mouth to lock lips with Mona. His free hand wandered to her leg, and she didn’t swat it away.

===

Vicki wasn’t sure how long they’d been dancing when they finished, but she’d been wanting a drink for a while. She grabbed another beer – this time, a cold bottle – and took a healthy slug from it as she followed Shelley upstairs. She had seemed a little nervous when trying to get away from the dance, and this had made Vicki look around too, but she hadn’t seen anything wrong; she was pretty sure Shelley didn’t have any creepy stalker exes.

They found the stairs leading to the second floor of the large house, passing by other people coming downstairs who had satisfied looks on their faces. It didn’t take a genius, Vicki thought, to realize what was happening on the upstairs floor as she and Shelley carefully made their way up the steps, trying not to overbalance due to the alcohol running through their veins.

Passing by the first room in the long hallway certainly proved that making out (and probably more) was a popular sport as there were couples sprawled over the couches and even one couple on the floor.

Shelley seemed to be hunting for an empty room; Vicki rolled her eyes and said, “Shel? There areno empty rooms. There’ve been people on the beds in the last two rooms, and I bet the next room’ll have people, too.”

Vicki looked on, astonished, as Shelley grabbed the beer out of her hand and drank off nearly a quarter of the bottle. She grabbed Shelley’s shoulder and steadied her friend as she said, “What? What’s wrong?”

Her friend licked her lips and slurred, “Need to find a room, okay?”

They lucked out as they finally spotted a small walk-in closet just off a bedroom that, in the light briefly thrown into the room, showed two human-sized lumps on the bed. Inside the closet, Vicki reached up, felt the thin metal beads jangling against her hand and pulled, turning the light on inside the closet as Shelley closed the door and took another sip of beer before handing the bottle to Vicki, who carefully set it in a corner of the closet where she wouldn’t knock it over.

It was just large enough for two people to walk into, but they would have to leave single-file. The wall opposite the door was behind Vicki, as she’d walked in first.

Shelley’s hands shook. She nervously said slowly and carefully, “Would you be mad if… uh, I told you something?”

Vicki knew, from being fairly drunk herself, that when you talked like that, you were concentrating entirely just on thinking about the one thing you were discussing. This must be super-important, thought Vicki as she wondered what her friend had needed all that beer for in order to loosen her tongue.

“No, Shel. I… I promise,” Vicki said, enunciating her own words carefully.

Shelley’s hand moved to Vicki’s hair, and she began fiddling with the ends. “I—just—Ikindoflikeyou,” she blurted.

Vicki chuckled in disbelief as she swayed, trying to regain her balance. This couldn’t be happening, could it? Her friend – her very attractive friend – was lesbian or bisexual?

Vicki wondered if that was just the beer talking, but hoped it was more than that. She tried to steady her breathing as her heart hammered against her chest. She suddenly realized how wide Shelley’s eyes were, and how she seemed to be readying for a bad reaction as she tried to stay steady on her feet. Maybe, just
maybe...

Vicki said soothingly, “Look, it’s okay. I like you too, Shel.”

She put her hands on Shelley’s shoulders to try and calm her. She could feel her friend’s shoulders shaking slightly. Shelley gasped, “Oh wow! You’re… a lesbian, Vick?”

“Bi, actually.”

Shelley’s tension vanished as she grinned drunkenly. “Oh, this is so awesome!”

She hugged Vicki, who smiled into Shelley’s shoulder as she returned the embrace. The words began spilling out of Shelley’s mouth. “Oh God, I was so terrified of telling you, because we’ve been friends for like forever and I was afraid you weren’t into girls like I was and you wouldn’t like me.”

“Hey. Shh, it’s okay.” Vicki rubbed her friend’s back, easing the tension out of Shelley as the other girl relaxed.

Shelley leaned back, and Vicki was never quite sure afterwards how it happened, but suddenly, both seemed drawn to each other and the two friends began kissing. Their hands soon started roaming, as well.

Just When Things Are Going Right by Rev Apoc

2011-09-04T14:06:00.001-07:00

[ I want to thank Mouse from Mouse’s Musings for being gracious enough to host this story on Right Behind as well as providing the impetus and encouragement to start this AU story about Left Behind: The Kids.

I’d also like to thank VMink, who took time out of a busy schedule to read this and comment on it for me.

Finally, please note that while some canon elements are the same, I’ve chosen to introduce, omit, or change characters as need be to help make more realistic, likable versions of Judd Thompson and Vicki Byrne. ]

===

Judd Thompson wasn’t unusual, as teenagers went. Sixteen years old, played basketball at high school and partied after the games, win or lose; maybe smoked a joint between beers. He’d dated a couple of girls, but for the moment he was just playing the field.

Lately, though, it seemed like his dad and his mom were just constantly on his case about something or other. He didn’t clean his room well enough. He left his plates in the sink. He didn’t switch the outdoor light off on the way to his bedroom. He didn’t come along to church. He didn’t do this, he didn’t do that.

Thinking back, he realized it had been three days before The Event that he’d cut afternoon classes with his friend Jason, knowing Mr. Stewart wouldn’t mark him absent from History. Kind of helped that he was also the school’s basketball coach.

Judd had spent an hour killing time with Jason but still got home earlier than usual, so neither of his parents were home, but the mail had been delivered. He’d idly flipped through the pile of envelopes, dropping them one by one onto the kitchen table as he wondered if any were for him. Since he and his father had the same name, they sometimes got their mail crossed. He saw the “Citibank” return address on one of the envelopes, and felt around it, noticing the stiff part that meant a credit card had to be inside it.

Later, the only really good explanation he could come up with for what he was about to do was that he’d been frustrated, annoyed and just fed up. He’d had yet another round of fighting with his dad that morning about not attending church again, and then at school he found out he’d bombed the English quiz from the day before.

Not that it really excused what he did.

He went up to his bedroom, closed the door and sat on his bed, fiddling with the envelope. It was addressed to “Judd Thompson”, but Judd knew without a doubt that meant his father. Nobody gave teenagers credit cards.

Judd licked his lips, then ripped the envelope open and took out the contents. He noticed that there was a pre-approved card with a $5000 credit limit. All he had to do was activate the thing. He hesitantly plucked the card away from the form letter, and began picking off the sticky silly-putty-like stuff still stuck to the back of the shiny plastic.

If I could just get away from here for a while, he thought.

Suddenly, the card opened up a vista of possibilities. He and his friend Jason could go on a nice long trip, catch a few NBA games, maybe even pick up a few girls. He had a cousin down in Baltimore he might be able to crash at for a few nights.

Judd grabbed his cordless phone and began dialling the number on the back of “his” credit card. He told himself he’d just use it for a while, then cut the card up.

But not before he used it to have a little fun.

===

Vicki Byrne stormed out of her trailer, wondering when her mother would just get the point. She didn’t want to hear about her grades, about her dresses, about whatever. Her parents could God-bother her some other time too – preferably much later than now, as far as she was concerned.

She was fourteen, and like several other girls in her school, she liked to drink and smoke, and cut classes now and then. She didn’t think that was worth all the fuss, but her mother clearly had different ideas.

Vicki’s dad wasn’t as bad about nagging her, but she thought it was more because he didn’t have time for her anymore. He was seriously trying to hold down the latest job he’d managed to get, which meant he could be out on 12-hour shifts sometimes. He’d come home, shower briefly, try to eat a little bit of dinner at nine o’clock, then shuffle off to bed for more of the same starting at six in the morning.

It was almost like he wasn’t there these days even when his body was at the dinner table. But, mused Vicki, at least they’d laid off the drinking for a few weeks now. Maybe that was why her mom was being crabbier than usual; waitressing at the truck stop on the highway probably didn’t help a lot.

Her friend Shelley Brown, who lived in the trailer across the way and was sitting on the front stairs, eyed her up and down and said, “Lookin’ dressed to kill today, huh?”

Vicki knew she looked older than fourteen, and she’d soon gotten the knack of dressing like the older girls at her school did. She rolled her eyes and replied, “My mom was just raggin’ on me again about this stupid skirt. The way she tells it I should dress like a nun for the rest of my life.”

Shelley laughed. Vicki liked hearing that laugh. It wasn’t a nasty laugh like some of the richer kids had when they sneered at Vicki for being “trailer trash”, or a patronizing laugh like that jerk Daniel had when he was talking at her like she didn’t know anything about cars when he was bragging about his souped-up Camaro. It hadn’t helped that he’d been staring at her chest half the time.

Shelley was attractive, Vicki thought. Straight black hair, light blue eyes, lips that stood out so well with red lipstick and a body to match Vicki’s. The two girls had danced together at a couple of parties, but other than that, Vicki didn’t know if Shelley felt about her the way she felt about Shelley.

Vicki bit her thumbnail and tried to take her mind off the track it was running in. She said, “Hey, wanna get out of here for a bit and have a smoke down by the pond? I blew my science quiz today and you already know my mom was at me again about stuff.”

Shelley smiled. “Yeah. Gimme a sec, gonna run in and grab my purse, okay?” She stood up and dashed in her trailer, letting the screen door shut with a clack.

Soon, Shelley was back and the pair walked in the direction of the small forested pond behind the trailer park.

The two girls sat on the old bench facing the pond. Vicki looked up; the late-afternoon sky was a nice clear blue, though some of the sticky humidity that portended summer was evident. Shelley opened her purse and rummaged for the cigarette pack she’d taken from her mom’s stash.

Vicki grabbed her cigarette and Shelley’s lighter, not waiting for the other girl to light her up. As soon as the embers at the end began glowing, she inhaled deeply, then let the smoke trail out her nostrils as she breathed out. She already felt calmer, less stressed out. She tossed the lighter back at Shelley, who lit her own cigarette.

“Hey, Vicki?” Shelley said after a drag.

Vicki looked at her friend and at her concerned expression, she replied, “What? Do I have something on my face?” She gestured vaguely with her right hand, her left hand flicking the ashes off her cigarette in the direction of the pond.

“No. Just… you look like you’re close to biting someone’s head off. You didn’t even wait for me to light your smoke like I usually do.”

Vicki took another drag off her cigarette and sighed. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just… My mom and dad don’t even seem to know they’re just winding me up with all this do-better-this and stop-doing-that and it just never ends, you know? Man, I’m so glad you found out there’s gonna be a party this weekend, Shel.”

Shelley moved closer and put her hand out. Vicki clasped it in response, feeling the strength in her friend’s grip. Solid. Reassuring.

“It’ll be okay, Vicki. Look, if it gets too much, I’m sure you could stay over for a couple of nights. Mom’d be cool with it.”

Vicki smiled. “Thanks. Boy, I can’t wait for that party.”

Shelley grinned and released Vicki’s hand. She said, “Maybe we can find you a cute guy there.”

Vicki laughed. “What about you, huh?”

Shelley just smiled and took a drag off her cigarette.

===

“Boy, I can’t wait for the party at your place tonight, Jason,” said Judd as he heaved a sigh and threw the books he didn’t need into his locker. He stuffed his backpack with what he needed, and made a note to stop by the ATM on the way home.

It had been a piece of cake to get authorized for a cash withdrawal PIN. Judd figured if he had about a thousand bucks saved up, he could let Jason in on the plan and they’d sneak off on the upcoming spring break to see Drew in Baltimore.

Jason grinned and thumped Judd’s shoulder. “Me too. Hey, need a ride home?”

“Sure; I didn’t bring my car today.” Judd closed his locker, locked it up and the two went to Jason’s car. Inside the car, he said to Jason, “What’s the occasion anyway? We don’t have any intramural games right now and the football guys don’t have theirs until next week.”

Jason grinned cockily as he drove the car out of the school parking lot. “Kegger night. Dad’s already taken off for a week to somewhere with this lady he’s seeing and my brother Randy’s coming down with whatever you can fit into a pickup truck.”

Judd whistled. “Is he loaded or something?”

“He got a full ride at college, so all the money Dad sends is just gravy. I’m helping pay for some of it too ‘cause Dad left some spending money.”

“Nice. Hey, stop at that 7-11, wouldya?” asked Judd as he pointed to the store coming up the road.

There was an ATM in the store; not too many customers were inside and the clerk was engrossed in a newspaper. Judd withdrew the maximum daily limit, which was $400, and made sure nobody was paying attention as he stuffed all the bills into his backpack except for a twenty. He bought a couple of Cokes and gave one to Jason as he got back in the car.

“Feelin’ generous, are you?” joked Jason.

“Why not? Dad finally coughed up my allowance,” answered Judd easily.

Judd turned on the radio and the two boys listened to the music playing for the rest of the way home.

At Judd’s place, Jason said, “Come on over around seven or eight, huh? Things should be going pretty well by then.”

Judd answered with a thumbs-up before he got out of the car and went into his house, remembering to toss his empty Coke can in the recycle box. He made a beeline for his bedroom and quietly locked the door. He pulled out a shoebox hidden under several others at the back of his closet and stuffed the thick wad of bills in with the rest, which were now creatively stuffed in between his golf shoes. He figured there was a thousand dollars in there now. He decided to wait for one more withdrawal, then talk to Jason after the party was over.

After replacing the box, he reflected that he wasn’t going to play golf any time soon if he could help it. His dad seemed to have a fascination with the whole whacking-a-ball-around thing, but Judd couldn’t see the point to it. He made sure to unlock the door again before doing his homework.

Judd fiddled around with his math homework, not really puzzling out the answers so much as just staring at the questions. What on Earth, he thought, was he going to use freakin’ conic sections for?

Dinner was a welcome distraction as he ate his beef and veggies. Judd then grudgingly helped clear the table before escaping back up to his room to get changed for the party. Half an hour later, he was in his best jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt. He grabbed just his house keys, deciding to leave his wallet behind. Jason was only a ten-minute walk away, anyway.

Left Behind plus Zombies: Extract

2011-08-30T18:55:00.000-07:00

Background: a quick writing exercise I did after somebody mentioned the two subjects above in the same sentence. This is a single page extract of a much larger story that, sadly, does not exist.

...

“Come ON! MOVE!” Buck shouted, motioning frantically as Chloe ran backwards through the O’Hare terminal, blowing off the head of the nearest lunging, ravenous monster with her shotgun. She tossed him the walkie talkie and he pressed the button, taking one-handed aim with his pistol as dozens more screaming, bloodstained undead burst through the glass doors. Chloe narrowed her eyes, still pouring buckshot into the oncoming hoard as they run backwards towards the opening to the runway.

“I think we’re in trouble…”

“Rayford! Rayford, where the hell are you with that plane?!”

“Dammit Buck I’m bringing her in as fast as I can! Touching down now!”

Rayford Steele brought Global Community One into abrupt contact with the ground, staring at the wreckages of other planes strewn across the runway as they zipped past. Lurching figures were taken by surprise and crushed under the planes wheels. The screech of the brakes against the wheels drowned out their angry vocalisations.

Nicolae sat next to him in the co-pilots seat. Whatever else Rayford might think of the man, Nicolae had saved his life: the thing that used to be Hattie would have killed him if not for Nicholae. The man was even more pale than usual, his eyes were closed, and he appeared to have lost consiousness. Rayford wasn’t surprised: Carpathia had lost a lot of blood through the bite on his shoulder. But there was nothing do for him at the moment: not if he wanted to save Buck and Chloe.

The pistol in Bucks hand clicked, empty, and he threw it away as he turned to run. Chloe followed, frantically fumbling more shells into her shotgun as the roaring, screeching hoard of gaunt, dark figures followed. They scrambled down a broken corridor onto the tarmac, and Buck turned to see a welcome sight: the headlights of Global Community One bearing down the main tarmac towards them. Chloe rapidly fired her weapon into the bottleneck they’d just escaped from, clogging it with inert corpses as they ran for the plane.

Rayford saw the gunfire and his heart raced quicker as he turned the plane with agonising slowness, preparing to take off the moment everyone was aboard. There was a moan beside him. It sounded like Nicloae was waking up.

Rayford glanced over at Nicolae and found himself looking into pale, pupiless grey eyes. Dead eyes.

He screamed in terror as the zombie Carpathia let out an inhuman roar and leapt for his throat.

...

FUNERAL FOR A HATCHET

2011-03-24T02:26:00.000-07:00

Starring Verna Zee & Cameron "Buck" Williams

Verna yawned and looked down at her watch: 9:13 pm. Time flew when you were having fun, she thought. She wished that she could have some so that it would. She wished that she weren't so swamped in work, that she could have gone home at a reasonable time like everybody else at the Chicago offices of GW had. But the deadline was approaching fast.

Before the Event, she would have berated herself for putting things off until the last minute, and if she'd been in charge back then she might have berated those working under her as well. But they had lived through what might have been--what certainly FELT like--the worst disaster in the world's history. Few of her co-workers were able to function consistently, and they weren't always able to pull themselves together quickly enough to get everything done as scheduled. She could relate. She hadn't exactly been steady as a rock herself. It was rare these days to find anybody who was. Firing anybody for anything less than egregious failure to perform their duties wasn't an option; after all, where would she find replacements without the same problems, who'd been spared the same trauma?

So here she was, working late, working her ass off to pick up the slack and make sure the issue went out on time.

Thankfully, she was almost finished.

She heard the door to the office open and close.

"Hello?" she called out.

"Oh, hi Verna," replied a familiar voice, one that she hadn't expected to hear again anytime soon. "It's me, Buck."

Great, Verna thought. Just what I didn't need.

"What are you doing back here?"

"Well, I think I left my phone here by accident. I'd be lost without it. Um, have you seen it?"

Verna relaxed a little. Williams seemed different than when she last saw him. He wasn't confrontational. He wasn't acting like he was God's gift to the world of journalism. Maybe she didn't have anything to worry about.

"I'm not sure. You could try your cubicle--well, the cubicle I'd assigned you before you made other arrangements."

As she remembered how that had happened earlier in the day, some of the resentment started to come back.

"I'll have a look," Williams said before heading to the back of the office. Verna turned her attention back to her computer, hoping to focus more on her work and a lot less on Cameron Williams.

"Yeah, it was there. Thanks Verna," Williams said as he walked back into view.

"You're welcome," she responded flatly, not looking up. Now go away.

She heard Williams take a few steps toward the door, and then stop.

"Verna?"

God damn it, what does he want now?

"What?"

"I...um...I owe you an apology."

An apology? From the allegedly legendary Buck Williams? This was something new. Verna looked up, surprised. She had no idea how to respond. After a few seconds, Williams--who looked genuinely contrite--went on.

"I've been thinking about what happened earlier today, and, um...well, you can believe this or not, but I'm trying to be a better person than I used to. And part of being a better person means that I've got to learn to admit when I've been wrong. I remember how I treated you when I had your job, telling you that you were out of line for moving into Lucinda's office. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that's where your hostility toward me comes from, and I guess maybe I deserve it. I'm sorry."

Is it really a good idea to get into this right now? Verna asked herself. Maybe this guy was more reasonable than she thought. Maybe it would feel good to get some stuff off her chest...then again, maybe talking to him about that stuff would result in an even uglier argument. And she had work to do...

Oh, screw it.

"I appreciate that," Verna said, getting out of her chair and walking around her desk to lean against it as she continued. "And you're right. Getting chewed out like that wasn't exactly the high point of my week, you know? So I admit, when I learned you'd be working under me, I was looking forward to getting even. Maybe I owe you an apology for that, because maybe I went overboard. But there's more to it than just that. Are you willing to listen?"

"I'm listening," Buck answered with a nod.

"Okay. For starters, there's the reason you were assigned here. You were supposed to be covering a story. You didn't show up to cover it. And when Stanton Bailey called you on that, you lied to him. You said that you were there despite a ton of evidence to the contrary. So you were insulting his intelligence, and you were insulting the intelligenge of everybody else you repeated that lie to, including me. I don't know what to make of that, Cameron. As you said, you had this job before me. How would you react if one of your subordinates did the same thing?"

Buck rested his chin in his hand and closed his eyes, evidently thinking it over. Finally he looked back up.

"You're right, I wouldn't take it very well either," he finally responded. "I might fire me, too."

Well, this is going better than I thought. Still...

"Can you tell me why you kept on lying? I honestly don't know what to make of it. Usually when somebody keeps repeating a lie that nobody's going to believe, it means there's something wrong with them. It means, I don't know, that they're either compulsive or delusional. I'm not calling you names," Verna quickly added as she saw Buck open his mouth. "I'm just trying to make sense of this, to understand it. A lot of people aren't 100% mentally since going through the events of that day, and maybe they won't ever recover fully. I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't have bad days myself. Will you tell me why you did it?"

A long pause, and then...

"You're right, Verna, I lied," Buck said in a resigned tone. "And yeah, I was affected by the Event. I was as shaken up as anybody. I was on a flight when everybody vanished, and you know how many planes ended up crashing. I thought that I was gonna die. Later on, somebody actually did try to kill me with a car bomb in England, and..."

Buck seemed to be struggling to figure out how to say the next part.

"And what?" Verna asked gently after ten seconds or so. "Can you talk about it?"

"Yes, it's just...embarrassing..." Buck answered. "I was under a lot of stress, obviously. So what happened in New York was that I got stuck in traffic. I didn't get to the U.N. on time. I missed the story, and when I got the call from Bailey I just...God this is so stupid...I just panicked. I said I was there, like some stupid little kid who breaks a lamp with his parents in the next room, and then lies about it because he thinks that admitting it will get him in more trouble. Even though they know he was the only one in the room and they heard the lamp break. I wasn't thinking straight, Verna. The stress finally got to me, I guess. I was afraid. I don't think you're stupid, I don't think Stanton's stupid, I just...I wasn't right. I realize now that telling the truth from the start would've been better, but..."

He trailed off.

"I believe you," Verna said with a sympathetic nod. "I mentioned that a lot of people were still feeling the effects of the Event. Sometimes they have panic attacks. Sometimes they just seem to go into a catatonic state where they can't do anything. It's a terrible time to live through."

"Yes, it is," Buck said, almost in a whisper.

"You might have thought that I was being spiteful, telling you that you weren't going to cover anything major. And that was partly true, and I ought to be better than that. Let bygones be bygones and such. But even so, there was a question of your reliability. You got demoted for a reason, and you can't expect to be treated the same as you were before. You've got to prove yourself all over again, Cameron. I understand why you screwed up, but you still screwed up, and there are consequences that go with that."

"I suppose you're right. Can you do me a favor, though? This might seem silly, but...could you please not call me Cameron?"

"I...suppose..." Verna said, wondering at why he would feel the need to bring up his nickname now. "Why does it matter?"

"I don't know, I've just always HATED the name 'Cameron' for some reason. I don't like the way it sounds. Every time I've introduced myself, it's been as 'Buck Williams', and usually nobody really makes a big deal of it, asks what my real name is, nothing like that."

"I guess I can sort of relate to that. I didn't used to like 'Verna' either."

She gave him a slight smile.

"Okay, 'Buck' it is."

"Cool. Thanks...'Ms. Zee'," he answered with a little smile of his own. "This is actually going a lot better than I thought."

Verna chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"I was thinking the exact same thing! I don't mind telling you, Ca--Buck, I spent this whole day trying to put that scene between us out of my mind, and failing. You really got to me earlier. So I'm glad we're clearing the air here."

"You got to me, too. I think it'd be good for us to talk about that, but I want to think about the most tactful way to put it...can you give me a second? Oh hell, actually I guess it's not important. You were working when I came in, and I've probably held you up too much already. We don't need to talk about it. I should probably get out of your hair..."

"No, it's okay. I was just finishing up, and I want to hear what you have to say. Earlier today I couldn't stand you, but you really do seem like a different guy tonight."

"I'll take that as a compliment, I guess," Buck said. "Well, you seem to be really concerned with, um...I'll say assserting your authority, and not just with me. Your secretary Alice, for instance, seemed really worried about getting in trouble with you. And there was what you said about how you expected all of your subordinates to call you 'Ms. Zee'. Not just me, but everybody. And that word, 'subordinate'...it just rubs me the wrong way, and I bet it rubs other people the wrong way too."

"I don't think it's too much to ask that people talk to me respectfully around here," Verna answered.

"You're right, it isn't. But Verna, less than a month ago all of these people were your equals here. They used to call you 'Verna' instead of 'Ms. Zee'--or so I assume--and you used to think of them as Alice or Bob or Carol instead of 'subordinates'. Or so I assume again. By insisting on this rigid protocol...well, to be blunt, I think you're making the same mistake I did with you. You didn't like it when I reminded you that I was the boss and you were the subordinate. I don't think anybody would have liked that."

Verna had her mouth half-open to say that people didn't have to like it, before it sunk in that there actually were some similarities between the way Buck had reinforced their respective places in the GW pecking order and the way she'd done the same, not just with Buck, but with a number of others as well. And while maybe Buck had asked for it, not everybody in this office had acted like Buck Williams.

"Go on..."

"Well, I won't pretend to be an expert on management...and like I said, I'm making some assumptions here without knowing what your working relationship with the other people here was like before your promotion...but think about what we're doing here. We're addressing the problems we've got, we agree that it's been going well. And I think a large part of the reason for that is because we're not in a pissing contest any more. Neither of us is acting as though we're better, more deserving of respect or deference, than the other. Neither of us is demanding that the other acknowledge them as the superior. As I think we both know from experience by now, that kind of thing can make the employee feel like dirt, and resent the hell out of their boss."

A pause.

"True," Verna acknowledged.

"May I ask why it's so important that people here address you as 'Ms. Zee'?"

Verna paused again. Buck waited.

"I'd actually prefer not to get into that right now. Sorry."

"Don't be. It's fine. I'm sorry for prying."

"Don't worry about it. I might tell you another time. For now, I'll think about what you've said."

Buck nodded.

"Well, I'd better get going. Thanks for listening."

"Thank you for apologizing. I've heard you haven't really made a habit of it in the past, so it might not have been easy for you."

"What's got you here so late, by the way?"

Verna told him.

"...it's rare to get a full week's work out of the entire office any more, and now of all times!" she finished a minute or so later. "Readers need to know just what the hell happened, what's going to happen. Plus, I just got this job, and I don't want to lose it. Others here might go home early if they have an attack or a breakdown or whatever, but I can't. I'm responsible for this whole operation."

Verna blew out a sigh. It crossed her mind that after being up over fifteen hours, most of which had been spent working, it was nothing short of miraculous that she was able to avoid snapping at Buck through this whole conversation. She was glad she hadn't, but it was still...strange.

"The problem didn't get any easier to handle when I found myself short one reporter today," she continued, a bit icily. And then she winced. Did I just jinx myself by thinking about how civil I was being to this guy?

"Well, maybe if--" Buck began hotly, and then stopped himself.

Moments later, he started speaking again, this time calmly.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"As in work for me? Aren't you getting your assignments from New York now?"

"You'd be surprised at how light the workload is, now of all times like you said. I found it kind of surprising. Hell, maybe after I dropped the ball at the U.N., they don't want to trust me with anything major any more," Buck told her with a shrug.

"Hmm...well, if you don't think it'd still be a waste of your contacts and experience..."

"I don't. Like you said, I've got to work my way back up, prove myself all over again."

"It might be worth a try. How about we sleep on this and talk about it tomorrow?"

"Sounds like a plan. Have a good night, Verna."

"Good night, Buck," Verna said.

They exchanged waves as Buck headed out the door and to the elevator. Verna plopped down into her chair and stroked her chin.

Huh. Just when you think you know somebody...

But Ruth Clung to Her. (A meta-Amanda story)

2011-01-06T21:05:00.000-08:00

Amanda sighed as she stared at the phone. How she hated phones.

There had been no good thing that had ever come forth from one of the hated devices. She recalled nothing so vividly as the ring of the phone, and that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that resulted from the knowledge that it was her husband calling.

"Just so I know where you are, honey," he would have said. She recalled that slight edge he would place on the first syllable of the word; that faint sheen of ice that masqueraded a subtle threat. He used to have other threats too. The brushing of the back of his hand across his cheek, with a slight smirk on his lips. The dropping of the bible on the counter: a reminder that whatever he did, God would be on his side.

She had hated him, and now he was dead.

That thought brought a shiver through her as she considered the blunt, plastic receiver. He was gone, and he had taken his daughters with him. Her daughters. She could still recall the first moment that she had held them, the first steps, and...

Amanda winced, her eyes closing and a shudder running through her body. There were other thoughts there. Horrible thoughts about how her husband had taken her lovely, free spirited girls.

No.

Taken was the wrong word. It was nothing short of a rape. A rape of the mind, like he had once done, long ago, to her own body. He had controlled their thoughts, forcing them into a mental slavery dominated by dogma and hatred. And to make it all worse... he had been right.

It was the only explanation. The only possible way. God had indeed come and taken his people.

A people that she loathed. A people that had taken her daughters.

A people that had... Irene.

That last thought broke Amanda free of her reverie. A new sense of purpose poured into her as she once again contemplated the phone. She knew where Irene had gone to church. She knew who she had been married to...

But what to say...

"New Hope Village Church, Come and Hear the Good News!"

"Uhm, hi, my name's Amanda White... I uh... attended a home bible study there a few months back."

"Well, Good Morning Amanda! I'm Pastor Barnes, and I'm looking forward to seeing you here on Sunday!"

"Uhm, no I... I was wondering if..." Amanda thought furiously, trying to come up with the most nonchalant way of phrasing the question, "I was remembering a friend who was there, and I was trying to get in touch."

"We're all friends here at New Hope Village Church," Amanda could practically hear the "TM" at the end of that, "But I'd be happy to check the guestbook for you if you'd care to come down to see us."

"Oh, I am born again, don't worry about that," Amanda spoke the code words that she knew by heart. It had been a survival instinct for so many years, falling into habit was easy, "But I wanted to thank that member, because it was her conversations which led to my personal relationship with Jesus."

She felt sick in the pit of her stomach as she recited the words. Every little spark of sound a reminder of the sparks that had once dazzled in front of her eyes when she had failed to speak them.

"Well that's wonderful to hear. Not many people truly understand why God left us behind, but I'd be happy..."

"Actually, I was hoping you could help me find Irene Steele. I remember her name because..." FUCK! Amanda realized that she had said too much. It was a stupid move, and she needed to find some way... "because it sounded like Iron and Steel."

She winced. No, THAT was stupid.

Malevolent Father, Part Two

2010-12-20T05:17:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I decided I really wanted to try to continue this, preferably with 'Our Heroes' actually trying to do something... Think of it as a kind of meta-Rayford in this... Rayford if he had a real personality.

***

Nicolae was staring out the plane window when it happened. He didn't know why it happened. Just that suddenly, the clouds had blurred and lurched right before his eyes.

Rayford had been praying under his breath, from the pilot's seat. There was no reply. Of course, there never was. Nicolae seemed to hear voices no-one else heard, Nicolae seemed to move to the rhythm of a strange and ineffable certainty, but for the Tribulation Force, there was only prophecy from times long gone, and the desperate hope that if they followed along for long enough, maybe this time they'd be given a sign.

They were the last believers, weren't they? The final hope? Surely the Lord wouldn't leave them stumbling blindly. Not again. Not even if there had been no warning, no chance, no time for farewells between those who were gone and those who were not -

No. He couldn't think about that. Emotions hurt too much. Faith would have to be enough, because faith didn't tap on his mental shoulder at the sight of every discarded child's toy and remind him of his son, of how Rayford had put everything off for later, and then 'later' had happened, and there were no more chances -

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

He couldn't break down. Maybe his focus on faith made him seem heartless, but it was the only thing holding him together. If he let himself consider the magnitude of the tragedy, if he let himself see it as a tragedy at all, his guilt and grief would swallow him whole.

And here I am, ferrying the Antichrist about his destined mission.

It was grotesque. Rayford almost swore under his breath - not allowed to say those words anymore. They might keep me from seeing them again.

His eyes hardened. He'd spent so long thinking he was a great and mighty hero, the renowned and dashing pilot. What would that pilot do, right now?

That pilot would do his duty by humanity. "To Hell with prophecy," he whispered, and jerked on the controls, sending the plane diving down toward the earth.

***

Pain.

Nicolae opened his eyes. At least, he thought he did. From the sensations racking his body, he wasn't entirely sure he had eyes left to open, or eyelids to cover them.

This is not what was destined! The Malevolence was screaming at him.

"Please. Father. I don't know what happened, I don't know what went wrong, please - ahh - please, let it stop burning..." His words trailed away as he saw the charred skeleton of the plane around him.

Something told him not to look down at himself. He was likely in the same condition as the plane, and there were some things he just didn't want to see.

He looked anyway.

Nicolae screamed, just once.

I will not be denied! This is fated, and it shall not be prevented! You are the instrument of my will, Nicolae, and you will not die. I forbid it.

And then his flesh was creeping back onto his body, even as the plane reconstructed itself around him and rose slowly, painfully, into the air.

It was agony beyond agony. Why could his Father not let him rest? Why could he not find some new tool to carry out his cruelties? Tears coursed down Nicolae's cheeks, stinging flesh still red and raw as it healed with unnatural speed.

"Please... no more..." The words slipped out like the pitiful whimpering of a hurt child.

You will do my will, Nicolae. You will reign, and you will grant me your gratitude and service in all things.

Somewhere deep in his mind, he realised love had never been mentioned in that command.

***

Rayford writhed in place as his body was restored. How could he be sent back like this? He'd been so close to seeing them all again, he'd been sure he'd destroyed their enemy.

And then he heard it; a great voice, a sensation just like when he'd said the words.

The Presence was not welcoming this time. It was angry. It railed at him for his ingratitude and impiety, for daring to try to prevent what was destined.

"Lord, please, forgive me!" he gasped, eyes filling with tears. He'd been wrong; it was nearly unbearable.

***

Nicolae heard the quiet pleading and prayers of his pilot. He could almost pick up a sense of rage-filled replies in the air. He listened closer, reaching out with the sense he'd developed over time.

Strange, he thought, though he knew not the source of the chill rippling down his spine.

The voice they both heard sounded just the same.

A World Without God - Scattered Bits and Pieces

2010-12-15T05:21:00.000-08:00

People asked for more A World Without God and I have been writing more of the story, after a fashion.

I've got a bunch of disjointed sections of A World Without God. In the end, if I ever get to that, it will probably be the case that some of this is canon, some of it is a apocrypha, and some of it is heresy. I'm not entirely sure which bits fall into which category. I'm trying to sort it into some kind of order, but in a lot of cases I'm not sure about the order.

Some of this is story, some of this is randomly quoting poetry, some of it is massive exposition dump, and some of it is simply random. And I didn't keep track of names so now I have two entirely unrelated Andrews.

Things in brackets are out of story comments.

I thought the link to after the jump was supposed to appear automatically, but it doesn't seem to be, so read it here.

I've been thinking about the crazy people who thought I was a witch. Clearly they're crazy since I'm not a witch, but that doesn't mean they're wrong about everything. If they're right that this was predicted in the Bible then maybe a Bible has something helpful to say.

I'm not sure what to do here, I don't want to leave Jessica any longer, but I'm not getting the sense she's in immediate danger and if looking for a Bible first increases the odds of successfully setting her free, it might be worth taking the time.

The light was dying, the fire was kindled, and I had time to kill. When the first star showed through I said the the only prayer I knew. "Star light, star bright," something moved in the bushes. I stood slowly, it moved again, and kept moving, circling counterclockwise at the edge of the firelight. "By the first star I see tonight," I got a glimpse of hairless flesh. I knew what it was, another of the countless nameless beasts that had emerged since the disappearances, these ones were about the size of German Shepherds and hunted in packs.

The one I heard was trying to distract and disorient me. It wanted to have me stay in place, hoping the fire would protect me, spinning in place to stay facing it. Then, when I was dizzy and looking where it wanted me to look, its friends would attack from behind. I had a different plan. The ambushers always stayed on the opposite side of the fire from the distraction, if I chased it I'd always have the fire between me and the others, and they'd be to my side, not my back.

I drew my gun and made my way to the edge of the light, in the direction of the sounds in the woods. I tried to walk silently.

Which was probably pointless given I was still talking, "I wish I may." I suppose I just wanted to stay in practice. The thing in front of me realized I wasn't playing along and broke into a sprint.

"I wish I might," so did I. Soon my heart was pounding in my ears and my lungs burned. I reminded myself, yet again, that I had to find a way to get into better shape.

I knew running around through the trees in circles in the place where light meets shadow wasn't a sustainable plan, I had to make it change course. I switched the gun to my left hand and pulled out a rock I keep in my pocket, should ever the need arise, with my right. Then I threw it as hard as I could to my left. It probably would have been better to do that with my left hand, but the rock was in my right pocket. When it heard the rock hit whatever the rock hit, the thing made a bee line to elsewhere, and soon found itself right up a tree. I slowed down and caught my breath as I approached.

"Get the wish," I hadn't caught my breath enough to start speaking. I ended up gasping.

A few more steps and I could see it. No two of these things were exactly alike, but certain features were fairly common. They looked like mammals, sort of, but with the exception of a few seemingly random tufts they had no hair. Most of their skin was unbelievably smooth, almost rubbery, but there were always patches and streaks of course cracked almost scaly bits scattered about marring their naked bodies. This one's skin was almost Caucasian, but they seemed to come in all colors. Their long sharp teeth never fit in their mouths, and never followed any recognizable pattern. Their heads were shaped like a disturbed child's attempt at creating an alligator, their bodies were fairly doglike, their legs never seemed to have the same number of joints.

The fifth leg of the one on the tree was certainly distinctive, but it didn't seem to serve any purpose. Other than making the creature's left side longer than its right the extra leg didn't seem to do anything other than give it a redundant point of balance. I switched the gun to my right hand and took a step closer. It's outermost teeth were about level with my eyes, drool dripped to the ground.

It's the drool I hate most. Be a disgusting creature dredged from the nether regions of a disturbed mind if you must, but don't drool.

I pointed my gun between it's eyes "I wish," it snarled and three of its legs tensed. I fired. I spun around. There were two more, one had already pounced, I didn't have time to shoot. I hit it with the gun as hard as I could, shot the other one, and then shot the one I hit. I took a moment to make sure they were really dead. "Tonight."

I closed my eyes and said, "I wish I find Jessica." I hopped the star was listening.

I dragged the three things back to the fire. I ate demon dog tonight. In the morning's light I plan to find my rock.

I found a church on my fourth try. The first three had been burned to the ground. The one that survived was a simple wood building with an intact steeple. As I walked into it, torch in hand, I heard things flee the light. One of the things had too many legs to be as large as it sounded, and when I heard it skitter up the wall I was sure that I didn't want to meet it. Most of the sounds seemed to come from rodents.

A quick look around revealed that I was sharing the building with several things that didn't want to be seen. A flash of color and they'd recede into the darkness. The larger problem was the darkness itself. Not all of it retreated from the torch. Some of the shadows couldn't be explained by simple optics, and that, as much as anything could ever be, was a sign I shouldn't stay longer than I absolutely had to.

At first I thought it would be simple, I'd grab a Bible at the first pew and that would be it.

The problem was the Bible itself. It had been devoured by by bugs. Horrid twisty crawling things with more legs than I cared to think about. I screamed when I saw what I'd picked up. I also dropped the torch, thankfully the building didn't light on fire. The next Bible was the same, and then next one, and the next pew. And every single place a Bible might be stored. The church was useless to me.

So was the church after that, and the one after that. Bookstores were no better. Finally I had a minor revelation. From when I realized what I should be doing it took me two days to get to a motel. I broke down one door, opened one drawer, and there it was. Thank you, Gideons.

Unfortunately it did not contain a chapter on what to do should the world be overrun by hell stuff. In fact the entire Book of Revelations seemed dense and unhelpful. Such is life, I suppose.

–

[I have no idea when or where this takes place. I do know that it isn't in the character's home because that doesn't really have much in the way of tables. Or cabinets. This is clearly in an abandoned town, I'm just not sure when or why or where.]

Jacob looked at Andrew and how we had tied him to the table. He inspected Andrew's bonds in disgust, and delivered his verdict as if it were the only sane conclusion.

“There's not a demon in him,” about half a second after Jacob said that a spike shot out of Andrew's right side. It impaled some helpless cabinet. We all scrambled to be on the other side of Andrew as something happened where the spike had come from. At first it was impossible to tell what was going on, the activity was obscured by his shirt, but soon his shirt was ripped apart.

It looked like his skin was bubbling, and whenever it seemed that a bubble was about to burst it would stop growing, darken, seem to solidify and become heavier, and then, when it was a fleshy mass, more bubbles would form on it and the process would repeat.

When the growth was the size of a small dog, Jacob said, “Ok, so maybe there's a demon in him.”

Matt asked, “What do we do?” which was a good question, but I had no answer.

“I've got a hatchet,” Jacob said, “We could... you know ...” Something that looked for all the world like an octopus tentacle emerged from the growth and swatted at us, forcing us to retreat further from the table. “Ok, that's cheating.” I couldn't agree more. No human being should have an octopus part attached to them, demons or no.

[at some point he meets up with the three people he saved in the quarry, they left their community shortly after the community as a whole tried to kill him. “Whatshername” who saved him is named Justine, Mary is the other woman, Ethan, is the man.]

I couldn't sleep so I listened to them talk. That's not quite accurate. I couldn't sleep because I listened to them talk. I tried to tune them out, but I was unable to do that. Apparently Ethan had no such problems, I can say this because he snores. I think that they must have thought I was asleep too.

They were talking about my friend.

Justine said, “I think we should be involved.”

Mary said, “She's not one of us.”

“So what? She needs saving, we should save her.”

“It's insanely risky. I mean that. Insane. That or suicidal. Why would you even consider it?”

“'Whatever you do for the least of these...' I can't think of anyone leaster than a kidnapping victim.”

“Look, maybe before I would have agreed, but it's just the three of us now. We've got to … it's not like we've got the community to protect us anymore.”

“If we do this then it'll be the five of us. She wouldn't be the only one in our debt, he'd owe us too.” She was right, if they helped me save Jessica I'd be in their debt pretty much forever. “We'd practically double our numbers.”

“Or, if we all died, we'd literally wipe out our numbers. It'd be the zero of us.”

There was a long silence and I thought that Mary must have won, then Justine asked, “What's the most important thing for us to do now?”

Without a hint of hesitation Mary answered, “Teach the word of God.”

“Right, and we know about someone who is in need of being taught. The problem is that we're here and she's there. It'll be a lot easier to teach her when we're in the same place so we should get her out of there and bring her here. Otherwise, how will her soul be saved?”

Mary didn't seem to have an answer.

That was the end of their conversation, and in the silence that followed I was finally able to sleep.

–

Once again I have to put rescue on hold. Again.

I am still convinced that if I had been taken and Jessica left behind she would have found a way to rescue me by now. I just haven't figured out what that way would be. Maybe that's why the took her. If the competent people are kidnapped, there will be no one left capable of saving them.

I've also come to a disturbing realization. Jessica was taken by demons, and while I'm sure she doesn't like being a captive, I'm also pretty sure that she can afford to wait. I can tell that she's still alive in spite of the time that's passed, and I'm pretty sure she's unharmed. That's with her being a captive of demons.

If she had been taken by a human being that simply could not be the case. Each time something has forced me to put Jessica on hold it has been human action. This time the parallel couldn't be more close, someone has abducted people. Unlike the demons who took Jessica, he kills those he's taken. He does it fast. He started after I left and has gone through eleven so far. He alternates between male and female.

Ethan was injured and we were bringing home so he could recover. On our way the kidnapper, I don't even know his name, took Mary. Unlike Jessica, she can't afford to be put on hold. Her captor is human, and it appears that that's much much worse than a demon. Or at least worse than certain demons.

We got to Mary before he had the time to do much of anything to her. He took her ear. He got away.

What I feel now is not compassion for my friend, though I know it should be. No, I'm enraged because of how I feel. He hurt someone I'm responsible for, so I feel like it's a crime against me, not her. I know it's insane, but I cannot change how I feel.

All I can think of is what my revenge against him will be.

On the one hand, I want it to last. On the other, I want something that has flash and style. But if I set him on fire, then it won't last. How long can someone survive like that? Minutes maybe? Not long enough.

Still, I'll settle for it.

The thought of him screaming while engulfed in flame almost makes me smile.

We came across a settlement, a little under 300 people. We killed everyone. Some because they begged us to. The rest because they were the reason the others begged us to.

I had a chance to look around and see some of the things that have changed. We have a cow. Sort of. It has an overall cowish shape, it apparently came out of a cow, it has udders. It also has what looks like an elk antler coming out of its right cheekbone.

And she's full sized in spite of being very, very young, a week or two if I understand correctly. I don't know anything about cow biology, but that seems like it's probably as wrong as the antler.

I'm told that she produces a milk like substance. When I was shown it it didn't seem very milk like. It seemed like milk colored sap, but I'm told that if mixed with water and boiled it really is like milk. They tested it on the cat, which has not yet mutated into something deadly or deformed, thus they assume it is safe.

The cat is lactose intolerant.

[In case anyone is wondering about the cowish thing's calf, it was created without the assistance of a bull and, after trying to eat a teenager's rabbit, escaped and has not been heard from since. The fact that no one has stolen killed and eaten the rabbit yet is one of the few things that gives people in the settlement hope that humanity might be redeemable.]

I shot the bastard today.

It was entirely unsatisfying, but at least he's dead. He had even more time his current victim than with Mary. I cannot repeat what David said to me, I don't want to remember the exact words. I don't want to remember how I felt.

I don't want to think about it at all.

His captor cut off his arm. One bone at a time. Starting from the tips of his fingers. Now his right arm ends at the elbow.

He's recovering now. That's not the right word. It makes it sound like his arm will grow back. I don't know what the right word is.

Mary went to talk to him, I suppose she understands better than anyone else being the only other person to have survived being the bastard's captive. I overheard how their conversation started.

She said, “I heard you lost your arm.”

He said, “I heard you lost your ear.”

I cannot see any way that such a conversation could possibly be comforting. Still, if she bounced back, and she did, perhaps she can help him.

The trees in the surrounding area had lost their leaves and changed into twisted spiked forms. The ground cover was a kind of black goop, and when we made it through we saw why the had been abducting people. The people, the slaves, were being forced to build. Other than being slaves there was no evidence that they were mistreated, in fact they seemed to be fairly well fed.

What they were building was a giant temple, the finished portions looked like they were cut from solid obsidian, but it was really made of hardened goop on a wood frame. It was the biggest thing I've ever seen, a kind of stepped pyramid. It felt like it went on forever.

[and in here there's the drawn out process of freeing groups of people and pointing each of them in different directions in hopes the faceless flying things won't be able to track all of them. At first it seemed like things went really well, as the the demons dropped everything to chase after the first group, making it easier to free the next group, and pretty soon there were more people free than demons to chase them, and it seemed like everyone got away. The narrator realized that that was pretty much impossible, and discovered that the demony things were herding the escapees into larger and larger groups that would be easier to track. And then, stuff happens. Um, yeah.]

In many ways Ethan is a great guy. For the most part he is a caring compassionate person. For the most part.

He was safe surrounded by like minded people but when it turned out that they were only like minded for the most part, and not one the relatively small matter of whether I should be killed, he took a stand and walked away. He did this after I had gotten away and the point was moot. He did it on principle alone.

That's great, we need more like him in that respect. Even though I think that he brings less to the table than Justine or Mary, who did the same thing, I'm happy to have him with us. For the most part. But just as Ethan reached a point where he had to draw a line and say one thing was going to far, I've been getting to that point with him.

He hasn't been playing well with others. Or rather other. One specific other. It doesn't even make any sense, he and she have no need to interact at all anyway, I don't see why he doesn't just ignore her and hold his tongue when she's around. It would literally be the least he could do. He'd still be being an asshole, but at least not be as active about it.

Her name is Jenny and she's a really good cook. I don't know much about her beyond that. Dark hair, light skin. Tall I guess. She speaks softly, often to the point she's hard to hear. The only thing I care about is that she can make the dead abominations we bring her into edible food. Good food even.

That isn't enough for him. I tried to explain that she's not an abomination, she simply cooks them, but no. He wouldn't listen. He said that somewhere in the Bible it says something about men acting like women, or wearing women's clothes, or something. I don't know exactly what. I don't want to know. I don't care. It doesn't apply to her anyway, she's not a man.

He didn't listen. He talked about how horrible it was for her to have made the change that she did. He seemed shocked when I said that I didn't have any problem with it, he couldn't believe it. I suppose he's right, I do have one problem with it. She picked a name starting with J. I've always had trouble with names, and when they have the same first letter it's infinitely worse. Justine and Jessica and Jordan and Jane and the others to which Jenny has been added all run together. Even though I've known Jessica for years. I just suck at names, I get it from my mother.

So I really would have preferred that she pick something in an Ellen or an Abigail or any of the other unrepresented first letters. I admitted that to him, and I pointed out that it was my problem, not hers.

I'm not sure if I really expected talking about me and my specific problems to get him to think about whether his discomfort might be more about him than Jenny, but it definitely did not have that effect. He brought the conversation right back to how Jenny was evil and wrong and should not be.

This simply cannot stand. We kill abominations. We exterminate evil. To say that Jenny is one of these things is to say that she should be put down. It is nothing less, it can be nothing less. Middle ground doesn't exist any more. Well, it does, but not within the field of evil abominations. If we are to survive we need to oppose evil at every turn. We need to fight it tooth and nail. We are at war against the abominations.

To say that Jenny is evil is to say that she is the enemy. That is not something that you say to a group of people who are on edge, armed, and watching their humanity slowly slip away. It is not safe.

So I explained that if he does not stop acting this way I will shoot him. I will not kill him, I like him most of the time and I definitely wouldn't want to deal with the fallout from his friends, but I will shoot him. I also added that if he keeps on using the Bible to justify his bigotry I will go down to the coast, set a trap, and hit him with a lobster as soon as humanly possible.

He can think what ever he wants, but his actions are putting Jenny in danger, and that I will not have.

I don't know Jenny that well, she's not my friend, but she is a part of the community and that's enough. She's a human being and that's enough. Plus, I'm the reason Ethan is here, that makes me responsible for any damage he does.

It called me a demon. It said it was going to kill me. I didn't say anything nearly that coherent. I said, “What?! I'm not … I … I was born on the twenty seventh of may at Mercy Hospital. It snowed that day. Growing up I always imagined that it looked like a Christmas card, and when I got older I realized that snow in May doesn't work that way. My father died when I was three, I have no memories of him. But I know that demons don't have fathers who die of cancer.

“My mother was a mathematician. She had green eyes and long red hair. Her skin was pale and her freckles were many. She used to read 19th century poetry to me when she tucked me in at night. Do demons even have mothers?

“I flunked sixth grade science because I spent my time thinking about a girl I thought I was in love with. I didn't even know her name. I'm not a demon.”

Walking backwards is an art. Anyone who ever looked down on tour guides needs to seriously rethink their position. Even knowing where every obstruction is it's hard to plant you feet well, keep moving, and keep the person in front of you engaged enough in what you're saying to prevent them from killing you all at the same time.

I'm really not that good at it.

That point was driven home when he, apparently sick of me trying to argue I was human, threw a seven foot long evil looking sharp object that I think was a javelin my way.

There was a moment's pause after the sharp thing missed me, in which I ran and added, somewhat stupidly, “You said that you used to be an angel, that makes you the demon.”

When trees spontantiously explode they create splinters. Splinters hurt like hell.

I've never been one to delve too deeply into symbols and meanings beyond what's on the surface. I think that Frost's Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening was about stopping by the woods on a snowy evening. In fact, I have a suspicion that he may be recounting an actual event.

It would not surprise me if he really did stop by the woods, his horse really did shake the bells, and later on he wrote a poem about it.

I don't think that we need to resort to symbolic analysis. You read the poem, or better still speak it, and you feel something. I think that what you feel is the point.

But then everyone has to bring their view to the table. “Of course it's about death.” “Of course the dark woods symbolize dying.” “Of course it's about suicide and obligations preventing it.” “Of course” they say. “Of course” means that it in no way follows. Their analysis is a way to tear something beautiful apart. To rip it limb from limb from limb in hopes that somehow the deconstruction will allow them to understand better.

Maybe we were never meant to understand. Maybe we were meant to feel. To feel it without a ridged framework, without dissecting it. To take it as it is and have that change us.

Yet today I feel like I have a better understanding of what they mean. I was trying to get something out of my head. Something I refuse to write down. Something that I don't want to do, but it wouldn't go away. As it felt more and more inevitable I suddenly found myself at a cliff face. There hadn't been one there Before, it looked to me like the land had been eaten away.

It was so tempting to simply step out into space. My friends would all be safe from me. I wouldn't have to worry about losing control and finding that I'd let one of those thoughts get the better of me. Ever since I'd tapped into my other senses I've been the best killer around, I'm not convinced that I could be stopped. There are plenty of people who could beat me in a fair fight, but it wouldn't be a fair fight.

And there was a cliff. Like a gift. I was tempted. I was very, very tempted.

But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go before I sleep.

I've been thinking more about suicide.

I speak of Andrew. Not Andy, he died under entirely unrelated circumstances.

Andrew came to me one day, said he'd traded for guard duty with someone else but hadn't gotten a weapon, asked to borrow my pistol. I gave it to him, he walked away, and as soon as I was out of sight I heard the shot. It was a clean kill and he was dead when I got there.

Looking back I remember that he was acting strangely, looking at his knife and his hands in an odd way, his posture was different, maybe even his voice. But at the time I didn't really take notice.

By the end of the day I'd figured out why. He'd been out making snares by the river in hopes of catching some food, and come across a woman bathing. She didn't say why she was where she was, but I'd guess she was so far from camp for safety. I think there's safety in numbers, but there are other theories. She probably figured that if she went far enough away no one would be likely to run across her and thus she'd be safe for that reason.

Anyway, he did run across her. She said that he just apologized and went away. That there was nothing that stood out as strange. The word she used to describe the encounter was awkward, not threatening or disturbing or anything that set off red flags.

But I understood. When he came across her that meant they were alone, where no one would know what had happened, and he was armed. Plus she was probably naked. I can only imagine what might have gone through his head, and if he felt that he couldn't maintain control then I think he probably did the right thing. I hope that if I should find myself on the edge of losing control I can do the same thing. I have the same gun.

I found God today. I was considering doing what Andrew did, I was considering going away and never returning. I ran from our settlement. I ran as fast as I could and as far as I could until I collapsed to the ground gasping.

And then I talked to God. I don't remember what I said exactly, but it was something like:

God, if you're listening, I'm trying to do the right thing, we all are, but I could really use some help.

I didn't realize at the time, but looking back the effect was almost immediate. I haven't wanted to do unspeakable things since I said it. God helped me. When I returned and saw Jessica I felt simple joy for the first time since the disappearances. Not even when I finally got to her after she'd been abducted have I really felt that way. It's like whatever part of me feels for others has been turned back on.

I told her that I'm better, I'm not sure if she fully understands what that means.

[Theology]

Jessica asked me what I believed today, I tried to get her to ask Justine or Mary instead, even Ethan. We have three Rapturist Christians on hand any one of who knew more about the theology I was coming to believe than I did. She wanted to hear it from me. I realize that I haven't written down what I believe yet, so here goes.

God created the universe, but didn't exactly do a perfect job of it. When I speculated that it was a result of the raw materials God had available Jessica said that she understood, she's read the Timaeus. I haven't, but I assume it involves creating something from less than perfect raw materials and being limited as a result of it.

Anyway, God created the world, and created it flawed, but used a series of modifications to make it work. The problem was that even with the various patches the world still wasn't right and got worse with time. The world as we knew it was pretty well doomed and needed to be rebuilt from the ground up, which meant removing the various patches first, a process that would take about seven years.

Jessica had two questions. The first was whether I meant patches as in software or patches as in the hull of a boat. First off, the term patch does not appear in the theology, that's my own description. Second, I think that both fit. It is like reality was a flawed program with an extensive bug list that needed a lot of alterations. But also I think that a patch on a boat is a good analogy. When the first patch was removed evil flooded into the world like water rushing through a hole in a hull.

The second question was why this wasn't done before. If I'm right God knew this was coming at least two thousand years ago, yet it only happened now. My answer to her was in the form of a simple question. I told her to look around, to think about everything that had happened since the disappearances. I asked her if she could have delayed it, even for a single day, would she have.

I think that any God worth caring about wouldn't want to do this, no matter how necessary it was. I think that any God worth following would put this off to the last possible day. The last possible hour. The last possible minute. The last possible second.

If I were God, and I knew that one day this absolutely had to happen I would put it off for a thousand years, and then when a thousand years had passed I'd put it off again. And again. And again. As many times as I could. Because the fact that something has to happen doesn't mean it has to happen today.

Anyway, once we got passed those questions I laid out a timeline, which is very hazy. Step one was that God had to leave to get to work, and took with

Ok, I know this isn't attested to anywhere in the Bible, but I'm going to say, “Her.”

God left and took with her everyone that she could. Of course Jessica wanted to know what made it so she could take those people with her. One of the Rapturists could probably have quoted some verses or something, I can't. I've only got supposition. Or perhaps more accurately: wild guessing with no foundation in anything. My guesses are as follows:

First children haven't been in the world as long as the rest of us so they haven't been tainted by it. We have. Everyone who remains has been wallowing in it. Even with God placing a piece of herself in each and every one of us to hold back the darkness, we still lose our innocence with time.

I actually want to pause here for a moment to point something out. If I'm right, if the Rapturists are right, then that means that God was ripping off a piece of herself to protect every single human being. A new person is born, God rips off another part of her soul, the holy spirit, to protect our souls. By the time of the disappearances that means that God had ripped well over six billion pieces of her own soul off. And she did it for us. That is devotion.

Also, that assumes that she was recycling ripped off pieces and that she didn't do the same thing for animals, which she probably did.

Ok, so anyway, God had a piece of herself in each of us to hold back the greatest part of our darker natures. Obviously that worked better in some cases than others. That piece was not, for the most part, enough to evacuate us when the time came to leave. For that she needed to have us invite her in and consent to be taken when the time came. That required someone to consciously invite God in, be aware that the disappearances were coming, and be willing to go when the time came. Or something like that.

The theory is that if were were able to check we would find that every adult who disappeared was a Rapturist who had, in their heart, agreed to be taken. The group of Rapturists I came across converted afterward upon seeing the Rapturists they had known all disappear.

This tells us something important about God, that being that God can only do so much without getting permission. The most important thing in the present situation is that what God can do without permission now is far less than it once was since God is now mostly withdrawn. To even get the previously unnoticed benefit of having God keep our inner darkness at bay, I believe that it is now required to invite God in, as I have done. As I want Jessica to do. As I want everyone to do.

But the timeline.

I've forgotten most of the details, but the timeline is one of deconstruction. Seals are broken. Jessica asked what seals were and I said that seals are first century shorthand for, “John, I don't want to explain what it means to have cobbled together after market modifications to reality itself, so I'm going to use a metaphor, just understand that I need to break them.” Or something like that. Seals are what holds a scroll closed. When we get to bowls we again see a theme of containment. Bowls hold things in so that they cannot spill out onto the world below. The problem is that you have to move the bowls to fix the table and sometimes the bowl is too heavy to move unless you dump it out first, which does rain chaos and destruction down onto the table, but it's a necessary first step in clearing off the table so that it might be fixed.

As for the trumpets, I have no fucking clue.

With each barrier broken down, and each step we take closer to a clean foundation on which a less broken world can be built, whatever the barrier was meant to restrain is released. As more and more things are freed from their restraints things will get a whole lot worse, but we only have seven years to wait, we still have each other, and God will presumably do whatever she can to help, even if it isn't that much at this point.

The important thing is to look after one another. We were given a list of commands, feed the hungry and such. If we want to do our part to make sure things work out, and based on the way things look right now God probably needs all the help she can get, we need to help everyone we can. We need to look after those she can't. We need to fight to make the world a better place because everything around us will be fighting to do the opposite.

While Jessica isn't sold on God, she agrees on the general idea of what needs to be done.

We've been doing a pretty good job of finding new food, but we've been doing an even better job of finding new mouths to feed.

This cannot be sustained.

Hi God. How are you? I hope you're doing well because that would mean that one of us is. Tell my friends and family that I love them. Keep everyone safe.

I forgive you for your part in what is happening.

We ran out of 9mm ammunition today. Fuck.

Justine thinks we saw the Antichrist today. If we did, he saved us.

The others finally attacked, land ones, things that somewhat resembled wolves and bears, were herded to towards us and then, once a stampede of those were attacking the others came from the air. We tried to fight them off with recently improvised bows and arrows and anything that could be used as a weapon. We were losing badly and then he came in. He was riding a strong white horse. He had a sort of metal headband, Justine says it's a crown, but it looks like a metal headband to me.

At first I thought he was fighting with a bow and arrow too, but when I looked closer I realized that there were no arrows, there wasn't even a bowstring. He pulled back on empty air, the bow bent, he released, the bow snapped back, and what he was pointing at died. Demons dropped at an astounding rate.

Not that he did it alone, he had troops who were armed with guns, but he led from the front and he got the credit. I've not doubt that we would have died without him.

The bow was just a piece of wood. I'm sure of it. Lovingly crafted into a bow perhaps, but just a piece of wood with no power of its own. I have no idea how he was killing the things that he killed. I'm just thankful that he did.

There was a sort of meeting ceremony thing. The man with the bow, the one Justine thinks is the antichrist, explained how things would be from now on. On the one hand, he wanted to be in charge. Just him, completely autocracy. Below him he said we could have whatever form of government we wanted, but he had final say.

The impression I had was that he wouldn't take a very hands off approach. He might not care who was on the city council, but the police force would be structured exactly how he wanted it.

That didn't sound good, on the other hand, he was talking about moving back into cities and towns. Not home, home had been eaten, but buildings, and streets and electricity.

Also, law and order of some form or other. Not having to worry about being kidnapped and have parts of you cut off, or worse. He said that they had driven the darkness back elsewhere and would do the same here.

Tomorrow he'd move on, but he'd leave representatives here. I got the impression that the only real reason he was here was that we were between him and somewhere else. He felt to important to be one of the planned stops on his itinerary.

The question remained of course, what if he is the Antichrist? Jessica asked if we should kill him. I thought that was premature, what if he was just a guy? But there was also another reason not to. I could tell that that would be a profoundly bad idea. Everything in me screamed out that it was something we should under no circumstances attempt.

I said that it was a bad idea, but I couldn't elaborate on why. I tried to push out and figure out where this feeling was coming from, but it was impossible, as if whenever I thought I'd grabbed hold of it it slipped away. Then I felt something I'd never felt before.

I told the others he noticed us, because he had. Somehow I knew that he was looking at us the same way I was looking at him. Without his eyes.

After his thing was over he came over to me and asked me to join him. No one else, just me. I declined. I explained that my place was here with my friends. He said he understood, and left me alone. It seemed perfectly fine. There was nothing threatening at all, but I got the distinct impression he could have killed me if he'd wanted to, and done it before I knew I was in danger.

We met with one of his aides, someone trying to form a Resistance. He, like Justine, believes that Xaiver, the guy with the bow, is the antichrist. Again Jessica asked the obvious question. If he's evil, why don't we simply end him? His response was, “Yeah... don't do that.”

Jessica asked, “Why not?”

“Have you ever seen someone die because their bones turned into sulfur and burned their way out of the person's body?”

“No.”

“Well I have. It doesn't smell good and it's not how I want to die. I don't think he notices when people act against him indirectly, otherwise I'd be dead. But the moment you try to physically harm him he knows, and he'll respond.”

I asked, “So what exactly are you doing?”

“Wherever he goes, I go, and whenever he tells people about his grand plan for the future I tell people that there is another option. I tell people not to give up, I tell them to start forming a resistance. I tell them that some things are worth fighting for and that they should know that whatever they do to oppose him, they won't be alone.

“And then I tell them to create resistance cells I know nothing about and whose member's faces I don't know. So that if I'm tortured I can't give them up.

“Now at this point you have a choice, you can work with me knowing that at any time anyone I've met can give me up, at which point I may be forced to name your names to people who want you dead. If you do then I can see about getting you inside information and occasionally divert supplies your way.

“Or, you can never speak to me again and do whatever you can to stop me from being able to identify you, and do your own thing without having to worry too much about me. Which is part of why I haven't asked your names.”

[logistics are discussed, as the aide is leaving:]

I asked him about the way I'd been singled out and offered a job and was releaved to hear that I wasn't the only one. Just about everywhere he goes he does that to people apparently, sometimes multiple people, some accept, some decline. I was assured that if he ever does decide to act against those who turned him down I will be significantly down the list.

I have an apartment now. Free of charge. To get inside I have to use voice identification, as does any guest I bring with me. If more people enter than identify themselves the police will come. If there is any evidence of duress in a person's voice, the police will come. If a non-roommate is in the apartment for more than a certain unspecified time, the apartment will automatically demand the person read a randomly generated phrase, if this is not done, there is evidence that the words of the phrase was prerecorded, or evidence of unusual stress in the person's voice, the police will come. If my apartment is randomly selected by a computer, the police will come.

Also, reaching out with senses other than the usual ones I have noticed that there is some kind of device hidden from view in each room. I'm guessing that it is some kind of surveillance thing, though I really have no idea because anything electronic is just wires and circuit board to me. I assume that if I do anything naughty, the police will come.

Still, I have running water, I have a bed.

We've set up a place in the woods. The running water was nice while it lasted.

[What if she's an angel?]

Jessica and I were first to the site of the impact, Ryan and Chelsea not far behind. There were broken branches, on the ground, knocked out by what had fallen through the trees, that was expected. What wasn't was the what had fallen. It was a woman. Actually that assessment is the matter of some debate.

Our first guess was that something had picked her up and dropped her, like shellfish on the rocks, just without the rocks. And the shellfish. The assumption was that she was a human woman. Then Ryan had to introduce a competing hypothesis just because we noticed that she happened to be alive in spite of the fact that, based on the apparent sturdiness of some of the broken branches, she hit with way too much force to survive.

Some she was half covered tree bits, clearly very scraped and banged up, unconscious, and breathing with difficulty. I went to help her and Ryan said wait. Generally speaking if someone tells you to stop moving, you stop moving. Doing otherwise could be fatal. But when the explanation is, “What if she's an angel?” It's somewhat- I cannot put into words what an odd thing it is to hear.

Ryan has a somewhat unique theology. We agree on just about everything, except for the parts that matter. Specifically he believes that we are here because we are damned, that God is doing the things she is doing not because she needs to, but because she wants to. Because she thinks that we deserve it. Though, actually, Ryan would say that God is a he.

As such, as far as Ryan is concerned, an angel could only be sent to earth for one purpose: to torment us. As such in his mind the correct course of action would be to run like hell, and, as he put it, “We should be thankful to whatever demon did this to her.”

There are so many things wrong with that way of thinking that I didn't even know where to start, I just made my way towards her. Then Chelsea said that maybe Ryan was right, not about the angel thing but she said, “Nothing human could have survived that. When was the last time something inhuman wasn't evil?”

I looked at the woman again, she was half covered by pine branches, sap and blood mingled on her face, her hair was the same fiery orange, inexplicably known as red, as my mother's. She was having trouble breathing. She needed helping.

Ryan said that shed kill us all. I reached out and saw that he might be right, even weakened she probably had the ability to kill us all. I also saw that she really was injured. I told Ryan I was willing to take that chance. Jessica was ahead of me, she started clearing the debris off of the woman. When her wings came into view Ryan went apoplectic. Thankfully he was just shouting, he didn't actually do anything. I probably should have pointed out that if his shouting didn't wake her up, it was unlikely anything we did would cause her to suddenly spring up and go into terminator mode.

What I actually said was that he could leave us, that worked out pretty well. All of a sudden Ryan changed gears the yelling stopped and he said, “I'm not going to leave you here.”

I said we wouldn't think less of him if he did, Chelsea said, “I would.”

We picked the woman up and carried her home. Perhaps when she wakes up she'll kill us all.

The angel woke up. I probably should have asked about theology, truth, the creation of the universe, and that sort of thing. I gave her water and asked her about herself. Her name is Sofiel, she's on her own. From now till judgment day she's not getting any more help from Heaven than any of the rest of us. And she doesn't know any more about how things are going than the rest of us.

I asked her who would be fighting the final battle. She said, “We have reserves.”

She doesn't really have any kind of a plan. She's just here to do what she can. The same as the rest of us.

She's definitely not going to kill us all.

Also, she has my accent. And Jessica's accent. And the accent of whomever she happens to be speaking to at the time. If I could have any accent, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't pick mine.

We tied Alex to a tree good sturdy rope. I'm not sure where we got it. We had him wait for six hours first, to try to put the thing in him off balance. Then we brought out Sofiel. Being here is taking a toll on her and it really shows. Her wings are molting, her skin is pale and flaking, I think the hair loss has stopped, but it is impossible to not notice how thin it's become. She looks frail, but she still walks with grace and strength. No idea if she can still fly.

Alex, or rather the nameless thing inside of Alex, spoke. He laughed and asked what she'd done to be thrown out of Heaven. She walked over to him, he was seated on the ground, his arms tied back around the tree. She had to squat to look him in the eye:

“I volunteered.” She let that hang a moment, then continued, “You think this is a punishment? You think I wanted to be standing idly by while the world burns? You think I wanted to be safe in Heaven dividing my time between training for the final battle and playing with children while people suffered?

“I asked to be here, and I was lucky to be allowed to come. Many more wanted to but couldn't be spared. This is my reward.

“Now, let's see about getting you out of that body.”

We haven't actually gotten it out of Alex yet, but I think we've made some progress.

[In the book The Mark, Buck and a sidekick go to a mark application facility (taking the mark damns your soul in Left Behind), one girl asks for some time to think it over. She's told, basically, to go head over to get her head chopped off, if she hasn't made up her mind by the time she gets to the guillotine they'll chop off her head. Buck does nothing. Nothing at all. Given that she doesn't really have time to think it over she defaults to “I'd rather not get my head chopped off.” This will damn her for all eternity. Buck does nothing.]

“You're going to kill me just for wanting time to think it over?”

There has to come a point where you say, “Fuck the mission,” and do the stupid thing. It simply cannot be otherwise. If you're not willing to draw a line somewhere, then nothing separates you from the other side. People can say what they wish about the ends justifying the means, but it seems to me that life is an endless series of means. Which is the only justification I can offer for what I did.

The fact that it did not result in my death and total ruin for the entire world I ascribe entirely to luck and other people rising to the occasion, I certainly can't take any credit for it.

I understand that we can't save everyone, I understand that we haven't even figured out a way to make sure everyone knows what they're getting into, that doesn't mean that I can accept that people will be forced to make the choice without even a moment to think about it. I couldn't stand idly by while that was happening.

First I tried to do it without breaking cover. I tried to argue that the regime didn't want people who would reject the mark given the chance. That didn't work, I got louder, they didn't respond. So I grabbed the nearest one's gun, and shot him along with one of his coworkers. While I did that I reached out to the surrounding building, there was a pipe filled with steam, I neither knew nor cared why it should be there or what purpose it might serve. I convinced it to warm, then get hotter still, until it exploded. That distracted the guards near it for a moment, as blasts of hot steam are wont to do.

I grabbed the keys to the door from the guard I shot as he fell. I opened the door, told those inside to run, and turned to face the surviving guards. I shot one. The other one shot me. It's been years since everything collapsed. Years since demons walked the earth. Years since the Antichrist came. It's the first time I've been shot. I was on the ground before I knew what had happened.

I killed the remaining guard as I lay there. The cell emptied, though not entirely. Some didn't run. It took a bit for the pain to set in, at first I didn't even realize where I'd been shot. I didn't care either. I reached out and saw the whole facility. Many more guards, police, peacekeepers, soldiers, and assorted people with guns. There were dogs and cameras, and everything anyone would want if they intended to hunt down fugitives. An escape attempt was extremely ill advised, but I had to come up with some way to make it work, because I was the one who advised it.

There were alarms all over, you just push a button, an alarm sounds, and the troops come pouring in. Really all that separated an off alarm from and on one was a charge in the tiniest of circuits. I figured that if I could burst a pipe I could probably work with that. I set off an alarm as far from where they were running as I could.

Then the pain set in. I cannot describe what it feels like. All I can say is that for a moment my entire world was my right shoulder. Everything else shut down and all I could experience was pain. I wondered, and still wonder, if that's what it feels like to have a hole punched in your shoulder, what must it be like to have someone who enjoys pain cut something off of you. Say an ear or a finger.

That was the first thing I could think of other than the pain itself, but I pushed through it and tried to get the lay of the land. The people running had separated into two groups. The girl who had wanted more time was in the smaller one. Five other people, one of them female, the rest male. As near as I could tell at one intersection they went left, while the others went right. I wasn't sure what I could do to help beyond what I'd already done.

The alarm seemed to have worked, so I set off some more, again, far away from them. Guards went to them, but when they found nothing I expected them to return. I needed a more substantial distraction than alarms no one had sounded. I looked for something else. I found it when my attention turned to the guillotines and the injectors. Much as I may have wished otherwise they were not surrounded by large quantities of stuff that goes boom. They were, however, in the direction the escapees were not running, and they were crying out to be destroyed. I hated them, merely thinking about them roused in me a burning anger that no other inanimate object had ever created. I took my rage and gave it form. I connected my self to that facility and poured what I felt into every speck of dust or breath of air.

The temperature rose. I don't know whether it was the exertion or the blood loss, but I started to black out. I fought to stay connected, to keep on working. Plastic melted.

The larger group made a wrong turn, they found themselves surrounded and surrendered. But the small group was still free and still moving in the right direction. I figured that I just had to keep people occupied and they'd get away.

I kept on working on the mark application and beheading room. The windows and doors felt the pressure as the air inside became much, much hotter than that outside. That gave me an idea and I devoted some of my attention to helping the windows and doors hold.

The room was far from air tight, but I was changing the temperature fast enough that it couldn't hope to keep the pressure equal. I lost all sense of time. I quoted an evil computer's discussion of hate, and I made the temperature rise. Finally, I just let go. The windows exploded, the air rushed out, and then the room collapsed. Everyone heard it, everyone responded. Guards who had concluded the alarm was a glitch and had been heading back to their posts ran to investigate the explosion.

Everyone was safely moved out away from the escapees, who disappeared into the woods while darkness overtook my senses.

I was woken up soon afterward as I was dragged into the cell by those who hadn't gotten away. My extra senses were gone. Burnt out, I assumed. I was laid on the ground and I heard the cell door close and lock. Someone, presumably whoever was in charge started talking to me from the other side of that door. I couldn't see him, I was lying flat on by back, my feet towards the door.

He seemed haughty, and angry. I really only remember the last things he said. “You think you can come into my base, pretend to be an officer, blow up my equipment, and break people out of my prison cells?” I don't even know where to begin. First off, I didn't think I could do that, I did do that. Second, what other type of cell would I be breaking people out of? His eukaryotic cells?

Third, the fact he was saying that and not telling me that additional prisoners, or their corpses, would soon be joining me, led me to a simple conclusion, “So I guess the others got away.” Ok, maybe my logic wasn't flawless, but it made sense that the recaptured people would be returned immediately, and I would be dragged in when they were. So the other people couldn't be back yet, and he made no mention of their imminent return.

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Instead he asked me, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

I suppose there are any number of wonderful ways to answer that, but for me, in that moment, there was only one. In retrospect I probably should have put more thought into it. I was bleeding on the floor and unlikely to get medical attention, I should have realized that those might have been my last words. I should have considered them carefully. Then again, I might have come to the same thing in the end. I didn't ask myself what would Jesus say, or what would Nathan Ford say. I didn't ask anything, I just said what my mother would have said:

“We are the music makers,
“And we are the dreamers of dreams,
“Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
“And sitting by desolate streams;
“World-losers and world-forsakers,
“On whom the pale moon gleams:
“Yet we are the movers and shakers
“Of the world for ever, it seems.”

When I paused between stanzas one of the other prisoners started doing something with my shoulder. I'm guessing that they were trying to stop the bleeding, put on an improvised bandage of some kind, something like that. All I really know is that it hurt like hell. I focused on the words and kept going through the pain.

“With wonderful deathless ditties
“We build up the world's great cities,
“And out of a fabulous story
“We fashion an empire's glory:
“One man with a dream, at pleasure,
“Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
“And three with a new song's measure
“Can trample a kingdom down.”

This entire time I was staring at the ceiling, it was an ugly water damaged thing and had an unpleasant habit of going in and out of focus. It dropped into incredibly sharp focus and stopped being ugly for a moment, the concentric irregular stains had a strange sort of beauty to them, and for the next stanza I admired it them as I spoke.

“We, in the ages lying
“In the buried past of the earth,
“Built Nineveh with our sighing,
“And Babel itself in our mirth;
“And o'erthrew them with prophesying
“To the old of the new world's worth;
“For each age is a dream that is dying,” tears started to roll down my face, the way they always do when I get to this point,
“Or one that is coming to birth.”

Some people would stop there, but if my mother taught me nothing else she taught me that you can't stop at just three stanzas. You've got to do the whole thing. As a tear reached my right ear, I became lost in a memory: the time I couldn't make it through.

My mother's funeral. I'd wanted to recite her favorite poem for her, one last time. But after I struggled through the third stanza, stumbling over the last two lines, I couldn't form any more words. All I could do was sob. My entire extended family was watching me, on any other day the embarrassment might have killed me, but on that day I was too broken to even notice.

There had been nothing right about the day. It was bright and the sun was shining, there was a pleasant breeze and the grass was green. It was like the world didn't know what it had lost. Like it didn't care. Like my mother hadn't mattered. It was supposed to be dark, dreary, windy, and if not raining at least with an annoying drizzle.

Two days later, standing in front of her grave, a rectangle of rich disturbed soil mixed with grass seed marking where she was, I finished the poem. It was a private recital that time, just me and her.

As I spoke I remembered saying the same words that day, the smell of fresh cut grass, the feel of the sunburn I had had:

“A breath of our inspiration
“Is the life of each generation;
“A wondrous thing of our dreaming
“Unearthly, impossible seeming—
“The soldier, the king, and the peasant
“Are working together in one,
“Till our dream shall become their present,
“And their work in the world be done.”

The memory ended with the stanza, but I couldn't bring the room back into focus. For some reason my right hand suddenly seemed very important. It was sticky, obviously blood, but I had no idea how it would have gotten there. I'd grabbed my shoulder with my left. It would have been incredibly awkward to get my right hand anywhere near the blood. I definitely would have noticed.

Maybe I touched my right hand with my left.

It was a mystery I'd have to leave for another time, because I'd caught my breath and was ready to continue. I rubbed my bloody fingers together and said:

“They had no vision amazing
“Of the goodly house they are raising;
“They had no divine foreshowing
“Of the land to which they are going:
“But on one man's soul it hath broken,
“A light that doth not depart;
“And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
“Wrought flame in another man's heart.”

It didn't really make any sense, it didn't have anything to do with this part of the poem, but more memories of my mother were coming up I remembered us in a storm, standing at the sea, yards from where the water met the rocks, daring the waves to break higher, and for some reason that makes no sense now that I am no longer in shock, the words I was saying seemed like perfect narration for the scene:

“And therefore to-day is thrilling
“With a past day's late fulfilling;
“And the multitudes are enlisted
“In the faith that their fathers resisted,
“And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
“Are bringing to pass, as they may,
“In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
“The dream that was scorned yesterday.”

At this point I nearly threw up. I don't know why.

Then for whatever reason my thoughts turned to setting up camp in the woods, after we had to flee the cities the second time. I remembered how different it was from the first time. That time we weren't worried about our baser instincts, that time we weren't worried we'd end up killing each other. Even though, theoretically, a global regime was out to kill us, there had been a lot of joy, and a lot of fun.

And there was even some singing, so maybe feeling like those though went with these words wasn't so odd:

“But we, with our dreaming and singing,
“Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
“The glory about us clinging
“Of the glorious futures we see,
“Our souls with high music ringing:
“O men! it must ever be
“That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
“A little apart from ye.”

Of course once the set up was finished there was work to do, the hard work of actually resisting a global force of evil wasn't nearly as much fun. Nor was having to pick up and leave once they found our home in the woods. Those thoughts waited until the break between stanzas, and I wondered what would happen if I were tortured.

I'd break, of course I'd break. But then what? Would the others have been smart enough to run away before then, or would they all die because of me? I pushed the thoughts from my head. I had a poem to finish.

This part seemed like it fit. The prison cell, the hole in my shoulder, my blood on my hands, everything the other side represented, and everything we hoped for. It all seemed to fit.

“For we are afar with the dawning
“And the suns that are not yet high,
“And out of the infinite morning
“Intrepid you hear us cry—“ I tried to raise my voice as much as I could without breaking the poem here,
“How, spite of your human scorning,
“Once more God's future draws nigh,” and dropped off again around hereish,
“And already goes forth the warning
“That ye of the past must die.

If I'd had more than one left to go, I think I might have given up. I simply didn't have much more left in me. As it was I again found myself having difficulty staying in the moment. I was back in another memory. I was with my mother. I was a child in bed, she was over me. When I looked into her deep green eyes I felt completely safe, and when she smiled I felt like everything was right with the world. As an adult that sounds like a silly cliche, but as a child it was Truth. Her hair hung down around her face, as she told the poem to me. The memory could have been from any one of a thousand nights. I spoke the words with her:

“Great hail! we cry to the comers
“From the dazzling unknown shore;
“Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
“And renew our world as of yore;
“You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
“And things that we dreamed not before:
“Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
“And a singer who sings no more.”

And then my mother would get up, say good night, lean over me, and give me a kiss on the forehead. Sometimes she'd stop on the way down or the way up, so that her hair just reached down to my face. It would tickle.

I hadn't forgotten why I started the poem. “So that's who I think we are.”

Someone to my right, a woman, said, “He left eight stanzas ago.” I rolled my head to the side to get a look at the speaker, but I was still having trouble focusing on anything.

“Oh.” I didn't have a lot else to say. Though I did think of one thing: “The bastard.”

Then I passed out.

When I woke up I learned that the damage I had done would prevent anyone from taking the mark or being beheaded in the near future. They would have to ship in additional supplies. Our keepers decided that it would be fun to refuse to feed us in the meantime. Then decided that it would be even more fun to give the thirty or so of us in the one room exactly one meal. So that we could fight over it. Enough of my senses had returned that I could see what it was without looking. It was chowder and bread. I figured the chowder wouldn't survive the fight and whoever got the bread wouldn't be me.

I was wrong. There was no fight. I was given the chowder, I was given the bread. They helped me up, lifted the bowl to my lips, and gave it to me. I refused to finish. Told them to share what I didn't drink. Then they gave me some of the bread, I told them to share that too. I lay back down, I was still exhausted.

And then there was a miracle. I didn't notice it happen, I didn't sense anything odd. But they told me that there was enough soup and bread to go around, with some left over. With more left over than we started with. I tried to get up to look, but I moved to fast, my vision went black, and I collapsed back onto the floor. Even so, I could tell they were right. There was more bread. I didn't see the soup, but I had no reason to doubt it.

Someone had violated the laws of thermal dynamics, and it gave me hope.

The Rapture

2010-11-17T19:22:00.000-08:00

He didn't want to be having this conversation again. He tried to ignore her. He had something more important to do anyway. In theory clearing the memory card was the easiest thing in the world, put it in the reader, hook the reader to the computer, and tell it to transfer the files, and forget about it. In practice the only part of the process that worked properly was the memory card. If he didn't hold the reader perfectly still, which was nearly impossible in a moving car, the connection would break, and he'd need to tell it to move the files all over again. That might not be so bad, if not for the fact that the laptop's battery was shot and telling him it only had 15 minutes of power left. Given that it would shut down automatically when it got to seven minutes left, which never seemed right to him, it was critically important that he hold the reader steady.

Which was hard when she was saying things that made him so angry his hands shook. Couldn't they spend a day without talking about religion? He was clearing space on the memory card so they could take a thousand pictures of them having fun climbing a mountain. Wasn't that enough? Why did theology have to come into things?

Finally he couldn't take it anymore. “You think I deserve to go to Hell?” He didn't mean to say it that loudly and harshly, and for a moment he felt bad. But not enough to stop focusing on the computer and card reader.

“No, but...”

And he was fully angry again. It was silly and self centered to think of it that way, and most of the time he would have recognized it as such, but at the moment it felt like a personal affront. She knew how much he hated people stopping mid thought like that. He had always said that if you didn't know what you were going to say you should take a moment to figure it out before you start talking. She knew that.

He gave her what he thought was a reasonable amount of time. And then more time. Nothing. “What?! But, what?” Nothing. He turned to her.

“Shit!” He didn't have time to think about how it was possible for her to be gone, how she got out, or why he didn't hear the door. He didn't have time to think about the way his computer went flying as his entire body lurched forward and his hand shot towards the wheel. Only one thing mattered: Getting control of the car.

When he turned his attention to the road he found there was no road. The car wasn't going down the interstate at seventy miles per hour. It was parked. In what appeared to be a Walmart parking lot. He didn't understand. Had be blacked out? He picked the computer up off the ground, 14 minutes of battery left, the clock had the same time, it was still on the same file.

No time had passed. Where was she? Where was the interstate?

Where was he?

Kelly was getting ready to lunge for the same hold that had made her fall of the wall twice before. This time it would work, this time she would grab it right and it'd be an easy climb the rest of the way to the top. This would be the day. She just had to go.

Which was a lot harder than it seemed. She knew the rope would hold her, she knew Jen was a great belayer. She'd been caught without problem a thousand times before. But the part of her that knew those things wasn't the part that was keeping her short of breath and making the chalk sweat off her hands.

She closed her eyes to collect her thought. Then everything changed. She wasn't holding onto the wall anymore. She was standing on solid ground. She opened her eyes. She would have been standing next to Jen, if not for the fact that Jen had disappeared.

Michael was looking out the window at the fields below. He loved watching the scenery go by and wondering what was happening down on the ground and today was perfect, not a cloud between him ad the view. Then suddenly everything changed. He said, “Jesus,” but it didn't seem like enough an explicative. The fields suddenly came up to the window and the engine had stopped.

The plane tilted to the left until the wingtip hit the ground. They were in a random cornfield. He later learned that the pilot, copilot, and nine of the passengers had disappeared.

The ambulance wasn't hers. The shift wasn't hers. The supplies laid out on the ground in front of her weren't hers. But the people on the ground were hurt, that made them patients. And she was the only one around who could help, that made them hers.

The explosion had apparently happened mere minutes before she was transported to the scene. No one remembered how they were pulled clear of the wreckage, nor could they explain where the ambulance came from.

It didn't matter. There was healing to be done, the tools were at hand, and the fact that they didn't actually belong to her wasn't going to stop her from using them.

He'd been watching Elizabeth Warren give a lecture, on tv, then suddenly he wasn't. His response was, he thought, understandable, “Where the hell am I?”

The only answer he got was warnings from the equipment monitoring the patient's vital signs. Explanations could wait, there was a surgery in progress. That he was qualified to complete the procedure couldn't have been a coincidence. Somehow, whatever made his predecessor, Doctor Mary Jacobs, disappear decided to replace her with him.

Perhaps she had been needed elsewhere, what little he had seen of her work indicated she was better than he was. Being magically transported wasn't what bothered him later. Nor was it the look in the eyes of woman who, shell shocked, told him that half an hour earlier she'd been 8 months pregnant, though he knew it should be, or if not that the sobbing he heard as he walked passed the maternity ward, infant care, and the children's wing.

What bothered him was that there hadn't been any time for learning on the job. The time it took him to find out what needed to be done the patient should have died. Instead all signs pointed to a full recovery. It was impossible. As if someone had hit the pause button until he got up to speed.

When he had lunch he found several others with similar impossible stories. One told of how he'd been so drunk he needed both hands on the wall to move, and then suddenly found himself sober in the place he was needed most. Another of being transported to the ideal place to catch and treat a man who had a heart attack after witnessing an entire school bus disappear.

She had to divide her attention between the road and the mirror. She wished she didn't have to spend so much on the mirror, but there was bullying going on and she was determined to stop it. Maybe she couldn't stop it everywhere, but she could make sure it didn't happen here. Not on her school bus.

Then, the children were gone. All of them. She didn't think about the fact that the bus had been in motion. She didn't think about what would happen if she let it choose its own way down the hill. She didn't think at all. She stood up and looked at the empty seats.

She called the names of the best students. Then the worst. Then she called every student whose name she knew. There was no response, and no sign of any of them, but it was impossible. Unthinkable. They couldn't simply be gone.

It would be much later that she realized that somehow the school bus had parked itself by the school, though she was nowhere near there when it happened.

Flying Pony wasn't a pony and she couldn't fly, but what she could do was jump and she was good at the steeplechase. Just as she was about to launch herself over a loon themed jump something changed on her back.

The weight of her rider was gone. She turned to look and then remembered the jump. She remembered it too late. She tensed, but never hit it.

She was alone in a field. Her rider, the jump, the course, the audience, the competition, everything was gone. All she could see was open field. She didn't ponder the question. She was a horse surrounded by tasty looking grass. She started to eat.

One moment there were six cheerleaders forming a pyramid. The next there were four cheerleaders all safely on the ground.

The tugboat didn't notice its entire crew disappear. It didn't notice that it was no longer in a crowded harbor, or that it's engine had been turned off.

A set of high definition cameras that a documentary crew had set up in hopes of seeing the Loch Ness monster recorded the tug's sudden appearance. The monster did not show up.

What IS Nicolae?

2010-11-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

Note: This is my first post, so if there's anything wrong with it that'll be my excuse. ;) After reading Pocket full of kryptonite on Slacktivist, I kind of became curious what the answer to Steele's question about Nicolae might be. I'm not sure if L&J tell the readers eventually (although I doubt it), or what the Bible says. My research for this pretty much consisted of the following: briefly checking Wikipedia, and asking a Christian I know about the Antichrist's nature as she understood it. It was also inspired partly by reading "Malevolent Father" during an earlier visit. I don't know a whole lot about theology, or about L&J's story. So basically, I'm an ill-informed guy who's just going to be making stuff up and hoping that it'll at least turn out to seem plausible. With that disclaimer out of the way, I'll start writing...

"I feel like I'm going to meet the devil," Rayford told Bruce. "I've never felt as scared as I am right now--and I hate to sound like I'm bragging, but I've never been easily frightened. I feel as if I'll fall apart in there! Buck may have gotten through a meeting with Carpathia, but he's younger and in better shape. I know that I can count on prayer support, but I still just want to turn around and run while I have the chance, and not look back."

On the other end of the line, Bruce listened sympathetically and instinctively nodded at Rayford's words, even though he knew Rayford couldn't see it. He didn't fault Rayford for being apprehensive--"apprehensive" nothing, the proper word would be "terrified". At any rate, it was a perfectly normal and human way to feel. But Rayford would need to keep his panic under control when meeting Carpathia. And even if Bruce were to forget all about the Trib Force's mission, hearing another human being in such distress made him want to ease that distress. It was simply his nature.

"Okay Rayford, try to stay calm. I believe you'll be able to get through this. We all do. And things aren't as bad as you think. First, you're not literally going to be meeting the devil; only if you were encountering the Antichrist in the second half of the Tribulation would you actually be dealing with the person who was possessed by Satan himself. Second, you don't need to be in excellent physical shape for something like this. As long as you're not prone to heart attack, you should be fine. And between you and me, I think you might actually have more stamina than Buck; he might have hit the weights on a regular basis, but the poor guy can't walk very far before he needs a rest."

When Rayford next spoke, Bruce was glad to hear that he did sound a little most composed.

"So what is Carpathia, then, if he's not actually the devil? Some second-rate demon?"

Certainly, Bruce thought, Rayford wouldn't have asked a question like that when he'd first called. When he had picked up, Rayford had indeed sounded like he was on the verge of falling apart. At that point, his focus wasn't on the nature of his enemy as much as it was on securing protection from his enemy. Primal flight instinct, Bruce thought. An animal confronted by a predator just wants to run away, get away as fast as it can. Only when it feels some measure of safety does its fear become replaced with some measure of curiosity, as seemed to be the case with Rayford now.

"Well, no," Bruce answered. "If he were a demon then I doubt he'd be a second-rate one, but that's moot because he isn't. Just the same as Jesus wasn't an angel. And, as I've already told you, Carpathia is not a manifestation of Satan, or even possessed by Satan. The simple answer is that Carpathia is a human being. He's a human being who has been given supernatural abilities by Satan, but human nonetheless. A human whom Satan has spoken to since the day of his birth. You almost have to feel sorry for him."

"WHAT?! How can you say that, Bruce?! I mean, this man is the Antichrist, and for the first time in my life I'm saying that about somebody without hyperbole! He's the embodiment of evil! He's the enemy, and you're saying that we should feel sorry for him for some reason?"

Me and my big mouth, Bruce thought. Sharing that particular opinion with Rayford had him back to near-hysterics.

"Rayford, I'm sorry that I've upset you. Please, let me explain. Imagine if you heard a voice in your head your entire life, a voice telling you to do this or that, a voice that praised you for some actions and berated you for others. A voice that drowned out the voices of your parents, teachers, people you looked up to, and a voice that you could never silence. That is what Satan has done with Carpathia. That's how Carpathia was groomed for the role Satan had planned for him. It's difficult to imagine any normal person not eventually succumbing to such mental conditioning. He had no choice in the kind of human he would grow up to be, and because of that he is doomed to burn for eternity. Jesus told us to be merciful, Rayford, to love our enemies, and a logical extension of that love is to pity them when they are in pain. Nicolae Carpathia may be evil, but I still wouldn't wish the fate that's in store for him on anybody."

Silence, but no dial tone. Bruce wondered if he ought to say something more, and then...

"I can't believe you're actually sympathizing with the son of Satan," Rayford's voice grated through the phone. Bruce's words had apparently fallen on deaf ears. Rayford sounded angry and disgusted with him. "He's EVIL. He DESERVES it."

It's not that simple, Rayford! Bruce wanted to shout into the phone. But he could tell that it would only make things worse.

"Look, Rayford, I have to go, all right?" Bruce lied. "We can talk more about this later. Just try to calm down. Meeting Carpathia while full of rage could be as bad as meeting him while full of fear. I'll make sure to pray for you and get the others to do the same, so you don't need to worry. Good luck."

"Yeah, goodbye."

Click and a dial tone.

Bruce hoped that he hadn't made things worse. Was he wrong, he wondered? Did pitying somebody condemned to suffer for eternity make him a bad person? Did God frown on that?

He hoped not. He couldn't help it. And he wondered, not for the first time, how a loving God could condemn even the likes of Nicolae Carpathia, even Satan himself, to such horrible and neverending punishment.

The Courtship of Meta-Chloe, part duex

2010-11-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

An ongoing effort to re-write the relationship between Cameron and Chloe; the original scene being re-written can be found here and here with Fred's commentary.

Cameron dragged himself to the airplane gate, glassy-eyed and near-mindless. Dinner with the Steeles was a strange but invigorating affair. On the one hand, he had to stop himself from mooning over the Captain's young daughter; he kept wanting to stare, to drink in the details of her face. On the other hand, if Steele's claims were true, then the internet-based attacks on Iran's nuclear facilities (the Gog botnet) and on the Russian Army (the elusive MaGog computer virus) were connected to The Event, and all of it was really just a warm-up for what was coming next. Cameron had researched conspiracies before, uncovered what powerful corporations and governments had wanted to cover up, and before dinner was done, he had already started identifying sources to contact, questions to ask, and information to research.

Which was why, less than 12 hours later, he was barely conscious as he boarded his flight to Chicago. He'd spent most of the night writing emails, making phone calls, and lining up interviews with trusted sources. What he hadn't done much of was sleep, and his memory of Coach seating at Pan-Con didn't offer much hope of rest. He'd bought a bible at the airport gift shop, and had notes on sections to read and cross-reference with other sections.

"Mr. Williams?" The preternaturally-chipper employee at the gate had keyed in his ticket information and seemed amused. "It looks like you've been upgraded to Business Class. We hope you enjoy your flight."

Cameron blinked groggily before remembering the Captain asking about his travel arrangements the night before. Was Rayford trying to butter him up, make him think better of the Captain and by extension make his Rapture theory more plausible? Cameron smirked at the thought: sure, he'd been offered huge bribes, threatened by third-world dictators, but hey, an upgrade to business class? That changes everything!

(more below the cut)

Cameron lumbered onto the plane and settled into the slightly-wider business class seat. He sat, trying to decide between the pillow and blanket in the overhead compartment or the Bible and notes in the bag at his feet. The decision was taken from him by a sudden press of scratchy wool all around his head and an enthusiastic cry:

"Bucky!"

Cameron felt a pair of slender arms wrapped around his head, and tried not to think about where his face might be. Muffled by the sweater, he asked:

"Chloe? I hope?"

It was indeed Chloe, who released his head from her hug and plopped down in the seat next to him.

"Dad seemed strangely smug after dinner. As far as surprises go, this wasn't a bad one on his part."

Cameron blinked sheepishly as a slow grin crawled onto his face.

"Yeah, I guess being a pilot has its perks. I though he was just trying to bribe me into running with the story he wants."

"Nope. Dad's not that clever. I think he knew you'd have a long, lonely boring flight, and since I was headed that way anyhow, he just made a call and got you a better seat."

"Why are you going back to Chicago? I thought you were in college?"

Chloe paused and looked down at the airplane safety guide.

"It just doesn't feel right. I mean, it sounds a little odd to say 'I dropped out of college to read the Bible', but if my dad and Rev. Barnes are right, Bible study reall might be the most important thing in the world right now."

They both smiled at the joke, but the silence hung in the air. If it was all true, then the world would end in just over seven years. Not very much time at all, really.

Cameron broke the silence first, talking in an exaggerated Boston accent:

"Hey there! College is important! You finish that four year degree, go on for your Masters, spend six months at an internship, and why in no time at all you'll be earning six figures! Seven, eight years at the most and you'll be on top of the world!"

Chloe didn't actually laugh, but she smiled, and ducked her head to conceal her blushing gratitude for the humor.

They kept talking back and forth; it seemed like the elephant in the room (airplane?) was that potential ticking clock. Now that it was out in the open, their conversation drifted away from it. They talked about if they believed in the Biblical prophecies. (Chloe was a skeptic, but knew something was going on) They talked about their families, about how and where they grew up. Cameron was still exhausted, but at the same time felt a manic energy; if his choices were sleep or to keep talking to this beautiful young girl, well, sleep could wait. Their conversation reminded him of those long-lost days of high school, sitting in bed & talking on the phone for hours about nothing at all.

Chloe had been talking with Cameron for easily over an hour before she noticed it. He was wearing a goofy smile, he was staring at her, and when she talked, he hung on her every word. Chloe knew she was better at flirting than he was, and while she hadn't dated a lot in high school or college, she suspected Cameron had dated a lot less. She could see he was smitten.

Her own feelings were a bit more mixed. He was older than her, but at the same time had this boyish earnestness. "Buck Williams, ace reporter"! He was interested in her, but he also cared about the story he was working on, and he wasn't going to compromise it. When he talked about getting to the bottom of a story, there was real passion in his voice, and Chloe couldn't ignore that. They both felt like The Event had shown them a larger world, that there was something more going on, and she felt a connection to him that was different than anything she'd felt before.

As they stepped off the plane, she pulled him aside from the flow of disembarking travellers.

"Hey, I still don't know about all of the Rapture stuff, but I'm going to go to the Sunday services, and I'll definitely be at the Wednesday Bible study, so I hope you'll show up for some of it. Now go home and get some sleep! You look like the walking dead!"

Cameron smiled, and then began lurching away stiffly, groaning and doing his best zombie impression. Chloe giggled, and watched, waiting to see when he'd drop the act. Amazingly, he actually went the length of the concourse and down the escalators lurching around, groaning about "brains" the whole way. When he got an idea, he committed to it; Chloe gave him that.

The Backroom Meeting

2010-10-26T23:34:00.000-07:00

((I apologize in advance if this seems as atrocious as the source material))

The room was tense, leaders from varied religions had been asked by Carpathia for a conference. There were some curt looks between people, ethnic and religious hatreds died hard. However they came, a mixture of obligation, curiosity and perhaps a desire to meet Carpathia brought them. He entered, eyes drawn to him, the small conversations stopped.

"Gentlemen, I asked you here for a fairly complex discussion, I invited each of you specifically either due to your devotion, charisma or various good works." Privately it was also because many of them had ambitions and prejudices he could exploit, but that was for later. "I ask you here because the situation we face is, for lack of a better term, of a divine nature."

Silence, to be expected, given what happened most people believed that the comment about electromagnetism was a lie but said anything openly. "The disappearances were a declaration of war by an entity that aspires to be the divinity of mankind. It acted as a thief, abducting our children and its most loyal as well as taking those that would cause great havoc if they vanished." He saw the skepticism in their eyes, he paused, this would have to be a more subtle application than usual of his normal powers to manipulate minds, making them mere puppets would be impractical he instead let them feel a kind of awakening, a feeling of living light coursing through them, a growing epiphany as he spoke.

"There is a divinity...perhaps it is the oversoul of the enlightenment perhaps it is Allah, Krishna, I know not. I felt its presence, its voice when the disaster came, I was told of what had happened and what was to come, I pleaded for its aid, it gave me some insight and knowledge of what will come. It has been sensed by others as well, many of the holy men of the past have felt it indirectly and tried to interpret it." And now the rage, many of them shouted now or proclaimed in anger how they had nothing in common with the heathen and 'other' that the other religions represented.

"How Dare you?!"
"Blasphemy!"
"You know not enlightenment nor what you speak!"

Carpathia growled out, "LISTEN TO ME," letting himself deflate slightly he looked at them plaintively, "Please..please listen. This being, this false divinity that stole our families and tore this world asunder isn't done. It's going to try to break the back of our societies and turn us into mindless slaves. The divinity that spoke to me, that tried to aid me..I..I can't do this alone. You are all men and women of power, charisma, and influence. If humanity is to have a hope against this threat, then we can't keep battling over the varied texts, we can't let ourselves stand divided against a foe that will try to devour us whole."

He stepped back, tears filling his eyes, crying on cue was a useful trait and one that he had honed. "Please, I wouldn't ask all this of you if I wasn't desperate. Things are far worse than this false divinity, the being that stole children and tore families asunder still has followers here on this world, some coming to bow after the event. What I have seen says that great horrors will be unleashed and that they will be rendered immune! There are too many innocents that will suffer, too many of our remaining brothers and sisters that will entrapped in the coming darkness unless we stand together."

The seed of epiphany had been planted before, and he could sense the gentle nudging of their own desires, some saw a chance for power, others saw a chance to ensure primacy of faith, and more than a few saw a chance to prove that their way was the right way, and each found ways to cloak their selfish aims in the noblest of cloth. It helped that they felt a brush of a powerful hand, and each assumed it was their own. One of them finally spoke, "What would you have us do?"

Carpathia took a deep breath, his face looking pained, "I ask that we call an ecuminical council, claim a grand revelation that shows a united path. If we can do this we have a chance. Faith is a bond that can hold us together even in crisis, and if the true divinity, the one that inspired the true prophets can speak to us we might find protections of our own, at least that much we can hope."

He listened to their words, but more their thoughts, shaping a few simple ideas, and in the end each one had their basic plans, a true unity he reflected. Each one planned to publicly support the unified system but secretly explain that theirs alone was the only right way, plenty more strife and it would make future 'witch hunts' all the easier. Ah, humanity.

A World Without God - Part 3

2010-10-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

I got the three back to their community this morning. Those there seemed like nice people. It was a refreshing change to meet people who seemed genuinely ... nice. Kind hearted, as if they had somehow avoided the rot that afflicted the rest of humanity. It was the first time since the fall that I'd meet people that I didn't feel I had to be on my guard with. They gave me food, they gave me water, and for much of the day they simply talked to me. They told me of their theory for what happened. They believed that God had caused the disappearances and, haven taken the righteous, would punish the world for seven years before returning in glory to save us all.

There were some points I might have nitpicked in that theory given time, but I was more interested in where they got it. I was assured that it came from the Bible (though I had never heard of such a thing) and they promised to tell me more later. Then they asked about me. I told them about Jessica, and how I hope to save her.

That's when it went wrong.

When the word “witch” was mentioned I realized that perhaps telling them about how I could feel that Jessica was still alive wasn't the best idea. Maybe I should have said that I thought she was alive, or guessed it, or maybe I shouldn't have brought it up at all. The point is, when previously nice seeming people suddenly turn cold and approach you in a menacing way and the first thing one of them says is, “You shall not suffer a witch to live,” something has gone horribly wrong.

The person who ran throughout the entire settlement shouting, “Witch!” probably didn't help either. Soon it seemed that every one of them was roused. I found myself walking backwards slowly, empty hands in front of me, palms facing them, so that they could see I was unarmed and not a threat.

I tried to explain that I wasn't a witch. It didn't work. One said, “That dreamer of dreams, shall be put to death.”

That didn't make a lot of sense to me, but I wasn't going to let it go unchallenged. “Now hang on a minute,” I almost tripped over a root, but caught myself and kept walking back. I didn't want to run for fear they'd chase, but I also didn't want them even one step closer to me. “I didn't dream any dreams.”

They kept on approaching. In unison, which bothered me for some reason. I'm not sure why people walking in lockstep would be more troubling to me than, say, the furry cat sized many legged demon beasts that I once saw devour a live moose, but it was.“There's no dreams here.”

But there was the knowledge that I did have a power that I couldn't explain. I'd used it to save these people's friends, so I wasn't sure why they had such a problem with it. That moment seemed to be the perfect time to test whether or not I could use it on command, considering that I figured I was unlikely to survive without it's help. I tried to call up the feeling I had had.

It worked, things again came into sharp focus. It didn't help. I could see every pore on each of their faces. It didn't help. I was sure that, if I wanted to, I could empty my gun killing one of them for every bullet fired. That was useless. So what if I killed a bunch of them? There would be a hundred more.

From the back of the growing crowd, a chant of, “Burn the witch,” arose. I was pretty sure that wasn't Biblical, but I figured I had to choose my battles. I tried to push my senses further.

I was flooded with information. Of the crowd in front of me three deserved more attention than the rest, they were somewhat closer to me than the others, and would be the first to act when actions finally came. They were each armed with a pistol. The one on the left had an old 22. It was well built, but misaligned. It would misfire three out of every ten shots. If I had to let one get a shot off, having him be the one would minimize the risk. The other two had newer guns, identical to each other and several other guns in the crowd. Standard issue of some kind. They'd probably been looted from the local police. All three had old injuries, but they'd all been healed. Nothing that could help me in a fight. Besides, if I actually tried to fight the crowd would be on me in moments.

I'd backed out passed the buildings, which meant no cover until I reached the trees. I found that I knew the locations of the trees nearest me without looking. I also knew that there was exactly one person behind me. She wasn't a threat. She was standing alone off to my right. She wasn't moving, she didn't seem to know what to do. She was unarmed.

In fact, every single woman in the community was unarmed. That seemed odd. It couldn't be for lack of guns. There were more guns than there were men. The population was split about fifty-fifty along gender lines: one hundred and thirty five men, one hundred and forty six women. There were two hundred and three guns. The oddity wasn't just in guns. Of all of the knives there was only one in the possession of a woman. She was cooking. One of five women who kept working instead of joining the “Burn the witch” crowd. Of the other four, three were washing clothes and one was sewing a patch into the worn out knee of a pair of jeans. No men were still working.

Anyway, I considered using the woman as a hostage, but quickly rejected the idea. If these people were convinced that they would go straight to heaven when they died, the possibility of one of their own dying might not be much of a deterrent. At best she'd be a human shield they might shoot right through.

I tried to find anything useful in the information I had. The ground hadn't been cleared of roots, the fact that I knew where they were and could avoid being tripped up without looking might be some kind of advantage, but not enough to deal with one hundred and thirty five armed men.

I pushed my new found, definitely not in any way satanic, ability further … and learned nothing of value. The buildings they'd set up were somewhat shoddy, they didn't seem to know what they were doing. Critical joints were held together by fraying twine while high quality screws were wasted in places they weren't even needed. They had a somewhat eclectic collection of possessions, the most notable being an apple peeler and corer which couldn't really have much practical value, especially considering the total lack of apples. They had an impressive stockpile of canned food, it was stored in an large basement dug out beneath one of the houses. For some reason they had a lot of canned tomatoes.

By pushing my consciousness outward more I was able to tell how many of them were wearing crosses (one hundred and seventy three) and what metal most of those were composed of (pewter.) That totally failed to help. As did every other bit of similar trivia I discovered.

All of that took three steps to learn. Three steps from when I first called on the ability to when it told me about pewter crosses. On the fourth step back I realized that I was looking at things the wrong way. I'd been dealing with inhuman things too long. Things that were faster than me. Things that could follow my scent and see me in the dark. Things that I couldn't simply run from. And so, somehow, I forgot one of the most important lessons videogames had ever taught me: running away is a perfectly legitimate tactic. When dealing with humans at least.

No one approaching me was especially well trained. They probably weren't the best shots. I didn't have to make it that far. As soon as I was in the trees it should be easy to prevent them from getting a line of sight, and I should also be able to out run them. I could feel the position of the trees, I knew where roots and branches were in the way. I knew that if I could just make it to the woods I could get away.

I spun and ran as fast as I could, guns were fired, but when I made it to the first tree only dirt, rock and wood had been shot. I was steps from being in the clear when someone finally aimed their weapon properly. I could feel that the shot was good, and I could tell that it was too late to get out of the way. I felt the trigger being squeezed, I sensed the hammer fall, and as the primer ignited I started to realize that I was going to die. Then something impacted the gun.

The bullet didn't stay in the gun long enough for it to be pushed too far off course, but it was enough. A tree to my left took the shot and in two steps I was safely out of the line of fire. It was sometime around then when I realized what the something that hit the gun had been. It was whatshername, one of the three I had saved. I guessed there was such a thing as karma. As near as I could tell she didn't face retribution, so no one got hurt. Except the tree, but it could take it.

So, overall an interesting day. I've got a full belly and they've long since given up on chasing me. Now I lay me down to sleep.

A World Without God - Part 2

2010-10-21T19:02:00.000-07:00

[Since the last one the food situation has been resolved and the narrator has set out on his own to rescue his friend]

I could hear people, which so far had never been a good thing. Definitely worth finding out who they were before they knew I existed. I found out that they were in the middle of a quarry, or a sandpit, or something like that. Steep gravelly sides, one of which I was peering over the edge of. I'd played in places like it when I was young, it was impossible to come down the sides and stay in control. You had to run as fast as you could just to keep from falling over forward, and the surface slid out from under you with every step. The only sane way in would be the road, which in this case required a long coverless approach.

As places to be went, it wasn't that bad. You had a pretty good defense against anything that didn't fly. Anything that came in down the road you'd see a mile away, anything that came down the side would be at a disadvantage.

They'd lit torches, in a circle. Seven men with guns were standing, with knives, over three people they'd tied to stakes. You don't need to be told what's going on when you see that. Criminals you shoot in the head. If bullets are scarce then it's a knife to the back of the neck, between vertebrae. The only reason to take time is for fun.

Fun.

I licked my lips as I thought about all the things I could do with a knife and three helpless strangers.

I shook my head but the thoughts wouldn't leave. I pushed them to the back of my mind. If they had to be in there let them stay in the dark recesses. Let them be confined to the unlit corridors and musty storerooms. Not in the front, in the light, on stage. Anywhere but there.

I was busy, I didn't have time for ... fun.

I had to figure out what to do with the situation in front of me. Really it was simple: There were more of them than there was of me. They might have their knives out, but a glance was enough to see that they were all armed with more. I was pretty sure I saw both handguns and rifles. The victims were strangers. I had things to do. The best course of action was downright obvious.

Except... except that once upon a time it would have been just as obvious, yet completely different. Before I would have known exactly what to do. I would have felt it deep inside. Back then I knew what was right. Ever since things changed I had been trying to get that back. I was hoping that if I went through the motions of doing the right thing, eventually it would become habit and maybe, eventually, something more.

Everything I did was predicated on the idea that maybe, someday, my moral compass would start working again. Until then I was groping at the memory of where it used to point. And that memory said, “You don't leave unarmed people to be slaughtered.”

Problem being, that was suicidal. How was I supposed to regain my humanity if I was dead? I didn't have an answer.

I said, “Fuck it,” to the world, and charged.

My first steps were wobbly. The ground was just as bad as I expected and I was pretty sure that I'd be dead before I had a chance to do anything.

Then something changed. My footing got surer. My vision got clearer. I felt liked I'd just had my glasses professionally cleaned. I chose my target, I imagined that the man lit up like I had selected him in a computer program. I drew my gun, I found I didn't need to aim, I just pointed the gun where it felt right, pulled the trigger, and the man died.

It should have surprised me. Normally I can't hit a target at ten feet if I'm standing still and looking straight down the sight. Yet for some reason it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Normally the sound of my own pistol makes me recoil, this time it washed over me without jarring me at all.

I didn't need to look at where the gun was pointing, I felt it, I didn't need to look at where the men were, I felt it. I knew the feeling. It was the same thing that told me Jessica was still alive. It was what told you someone was watching when your senses told you you were alone. It was what told you to duck just before something jumped out at you. It was everything the eyes can't see and the ears can't hear.

I gave myself over to it, trusted it to show me what to do. I chose another target. Again, I pointed where it felt right, pulled the trigger, and the man died. Time seemed to slow down. Another round fired, another enemy down. A bullet kicked up dirt to my left, some bastard had shot on me, I figured I should return the favor. Unlike him, I didn't miss. It was as easy as point and click. I did it again, I watched as one casing was ejected and the next round moved into place. I found I could feel the action slide, I felt the round as it was positioned, I moved with the hammer, the feeling of the primer igniting was indescribable, almost ecstasy. Expanding gas pushed the round from the gun, and soon another man was dead.

Tension in me released with that of the spring in the magazine as another round was pushed into place. Again I went through the motions of firing the pistol -I dropped with the hammer, ignited with the primer, expanded with the gas- but this time my awareness exploded forward with the bullet. I was flying. Spinning through the air. Flesh and bone tried to stop me, but the best they could do was slow me down.

Then I was back in myself. Standing on the quarry floor. The last of the men falling to the ground before me. Seven shots fired, seven people dead. It was impossible. But it had happened, and there were still the three tied up people to deal with. Two women, one man.

I pulled out my knife and cut them free before I could process the ideas that inevitably sprang into my mind. Before I said anything to them, before they said anything to me, I armed them with weapons taken from the nearest dead guy. They thought it was because I trusted them; they were wrong. How could I trust them? I didn't know them. The truth was that I would much rather find myself shot than have to face what I might do when faced with three people who couldn't defend themselves.

The most terrifying thing in the world these days is having power over another human being.

They offered me food and supplies if I could return them to their people. I would have rather left them there and just gone to find Jessica, but the problem with not knowing where you're going is that you don't know how much food you need to pack to get there. I was running low on food.

So we're going. Together. In the wrong direction.

A World Without God - Part 1

2010-10-21T18:53:00.000-07:00

You could feel that the world had changed, right after the disappearances. Inside of you something changed. Your conscience was weaker. Negative thoughts crept in more often, and were harder to shake out. The suffering of others didn't effect you as much.

I thought it was just a response to the tragedy at first. With so much pain it made sense to put up walls, but that wasn't it. Compassion and empathy deadened. You had to fight to keep feeling them. You had to fight to keep the horrible thoughts from your mind. You had fight with all your will not to become something inhuman. Most people weren't up for the effort.

As things got worse with people, other changes went unnoticed. The sudden problems with sea travel barely made the news, and the reports of monsters were treated with scorn the few times they were mentioned. By the time people realized humanity wasn't the only thing that had been changed it was too late. The oceans belonged to them.

Soon after I saw my first monster. It wasn't one of the coiled sea beasts, it was something else entirely. Some nameless horror from within the earth. The ground rumbled, the earth split open, and the first pieces of it reached the surface. It was formless, a mass of flesh and bone that had never known a designer's hand. It's limbs grabbed buildings, and people, and trees. Some smashed through the ground and acted as anchors, and it pulled itself from the earth. Its own bones shattered and reformed as it moved, that was the only noise you could hear over the destruction.

Once it was out it started eating. It didn't seem to discriminate. People, pets, cars, statues, buildings; it ate them all. It would skewer something or someone on one of its limbs, and then drag its victim back to its central mass, a mouth would tear open, engulf its food, then close and disappear beneath the thing's shifting skin.

I was there when it first broke through, in a field half a mile from the house where I grew up. That was around quarter of eight in the morning. By sunset the town I'd spent my whole life in was gone. Devoured.

Fun fact: the interstate highway systems was created for two reasons. The first was to be able drive a tank anywhere in the country at a speed of 50 miles per hour. The second was to allow the survivors of a nuclear holocaust a way to get far enough away from the cities that they might rebuild along the road. Neither of those things actually requires more than one state to be involved, which is why there are interstates in Hawaii.

Not that I've ever been to Hawaii. What the interstates did not anticipate was that those fleeing the cities might be followed by things that wanted to eat them. There isn't any cover if you're on the road. We lost at least a hundred in the first attack. No one knows what did it; no one who stopped to look survived. We went to the woods after that.

It wasn't safe, but it seemed safer. Things moved in the shadows, at first we thought it was just the wildlife, but it set in, gradually, that there was something else. Something smarter than foxes and bears. There was never a scream, never a struggle. Every so often someone would simply stop being there.

All the while we degraded. A notion would slip into your mind, something you never thought you'd ever think. Something you knew should disgust or horrify you, but instead you'd find it enticing. No matter how you tried to drive it out, it would linger, every free moment it would occupy your thoughts. The urge to simply do it would grow and grow. Some people gave in.

Your perspective on the world is forever changed the first time you dump the body of someone you executed in a ditch, fully aware that you wanted to do the very thing you shot him in the head for doing. That you still want to do it. That your desire to do it keeps growing. That someday you'll give in and then you'll be the one in a ditch. Or worse still, you'll get away with it. That no one will stop you and you'll just keep on doing the same thing.

Several thousand people made it out of my home town with me. Inhuman monsters could only be blamed to bringing that number down to around two thousand, that means that the reason the current population is barely half that can be blamed solely on ourselves.

I came to realize that the religious people were right. It don't claim to know the exact truth, I have no denomination, but it is clear to me that there was some cosmic battle between good and evil. There was some greater good outside of ourselves. Something that kept our darker impulses at bay, something that propped us up and prevented us from ever having to face the true horror of human nature. Something that fought to hold back the darkness. And it lost.

It lost when the disappearances happened. Since then we've been on our own, and everything we were once protected from has come out of hiding, crawling from the darkest cracks of the world, and the darkest recesses of our minds. Things best kept in darkness have started coming into the light.

I don't know what happened to the missing, I don't know where they went, but it can't be worse than here. I like to think that they're evacuees. That whatever was holding back the evil in the world knew it couldn't hang on any more and loaded as many as it could into the lifeboats. Children first. Then some adults. As for the rest of us, there just weren't enough life boats.

Some people still refuse to believe the religious explanation, but any doubts I had were washed away when Danny died. At first it seemed like he had succumb to his baser instincts. He just went hunting, with a pistol. First a teenage boy, then a teenage girl, then those who came to investigate the screams and shots, then random people, then those sent to hunt him.

But when we finally found him you could see something was different, there was something in him, and around him, it made him difficult to look at, your eyes couldn't quite focus, he almost seemed blurry around the edges. He was fighting with whatever it was, he had tied himself to a tree and it was trying to make him free himself. We didn't get a chance to kill him, he did it himself.

Badly.

Though he put the gun to his head, the wound wasn't immediately fatal. I think he tried to tell us something as he was dying, but it was impossible to understand. Whatever got in him wasn't an alien or an inter-dimensional whatever, it was supernatural. He was possessed.

I don't know how you fight that. I don't have any garlic and I doubt it would work anyway.

Danny was a reminder, I'm just not entirely sure of what. Don't let your guard down? There's always something worse?

Two days later the last person I knew from before was taken. Not killed, taken. An inky black thing appeared behind her in the night. Other than the wings it looked like a poor attempt at sculpting a human. I could have done something. I saw it, I saw its faceless head turn to me, then to her. I should have warned her, told her to run, or duck, or something, but I couldn't find the words. Malformed arms wrapped around her, and with a flap of its wings she was gone.

She's still alive. I can feel it. I don't know how, I don't know why, and I don't care. It's enough to know. Trouble is, I can't get her back right now.

When we were all too busy dealing with foreign thoughts creeping into our minds, missing persons, and the damage left by the disappearances we failed to notice another change. We didn't notice until after we were forced to flee our homes. There was one change more subtle than the rest, which threatened us more than each other, more than any abomination. The land had changed too. Crops started to wither in the fields, fields we had hoped to live off of.

It's clear now that there will be no harvest, so we did the sensible thing. We found a city that hadn't been destroyed. It was abandoned, no doubt for fear of the others, and we looted it. All the food we could carry. Then we went back for more. We got enough that I thought that maybe, just maybe, we could survive. Yesterday it was stolen. Every can. The people guarding it were killed. Not just killed. Whoever did it to them enjoyed themselves.

I don't know a lot about wounds, but a medical student we have told me what was done to them while they were alive. Don't really want to know how she could tell.

It was done with knives, the others don't need knives. They have claws, and teeth, and worse. That means humans did it, that means humans stole it, that means we can get it back. Maybe. Without knowing how many and how armed there's always the chance this is suicide. Hence this.

I realized that I've left nothing behind. The place where I lived my life is gone. I went back once, I told people to see if anything could be scavenged nearby, but the truth was that I wanted to see it. I was hoping something would be left. There wasn't. It was a hole in the ground. A canyon dug by that thing's teeth, heading westward as far as the eye could see. Everything I ever made, or influenced or touched before my hometown fell was gone.

If I die, I want to leave something behind. Something that says that I was here. Something that makes me more than a forgotten casualty. I've never written a diary before, I guess I'm not very good at it, but at least it's something. If I live to write another entry I promise it'll be less scattered.

One other thing. If I don't make it back, if I do in fact die. That means I won't be able to save my friend. You have to. I don't know who you are, I don't know what you think, but it doesn't matter. You have to save her. This is imperative, it is non negotiable.

Finding her is simple. Head north west. When you start to feel like something is wrong, like you shouldn't be doing this, that means you're going the right way. Follow that feeling. As it grows in the pit of your stomach that means your getting closer. Follow it until you feel it in your bones. When every part of you is screaming at you to turn back, to give up, to drop everything and run like hell, keep going.

If you do that I'm sure you'll find her, and I know she's still alive. I can feel it as clearly as I can feel the pen I'm using to write this with. Her name is Jessica, she has green eyes and brown hair. She was wearing a red shirt and bluejeans when she was taken. Find her, and save her. If your conscience has faded to the point you can't see any altruistic reasons for doing it, then consider this: if I had been taken instead of her, she would have rescued me by now and gotten our food supplies back. She's that good. Your chances of survival are much better with her on your side than they'd ever be alone.

A badly botched interview

2010-10-10T09:18:00.001-07:00

Buck was about to interview the many many thought would be the next Pope, but his mind was entirely on Chloe. They'd touched again last night. Nothing impressive, he just put his hand to her cheek, but if felt right, he wanted to do it again. He'd spent his whole life in a world without literal human contact. He had lived in a bubble only broken by handshakes and those were mostly with people he was pretty sure were trying to screw him over or sources met in dirty cafes and grungier allies. Nothing to compare with the experience of simply reaching out and touching Chloe's cheek.

He wanted more of it, he want to experience that physical connection again. And then again and again. Was he going too fast? To slow? Why the hell hadn't anyone ever thought to explain any of this to him? It was like the world went from thinking him to young, to assuming he already knew. Should they hold hands next time they met? When did they reach the point where they could tear each other's clothes of and have sex?

And where the fuck did that leap come from?

That bothered him. It wasn't supposed to work like that. Or was it? Did it mean that he was mistaking lust for love, or was it natural to think that way about someone you loved?

Why in hell didn't the give out a manual for this shit in high school?

It was time to start the interview and he tried to push everything out of his mind, but the attempt failed and he had to start while distracted and frustrated.

"Why didn't you tell me you were a candidate for the papacy?" Buck began. Some part of him realized it was rude and needlessly confrontational. This was not how they taught him to interview in school, but his mind wasn't on what he had been taught, it was on what his education left out.

"So, we're just going to jump right into it, are we?" Mathews said. "Don't you like a little champagne in the morning?"

When he said, “No thanks,” Buck realized that his tone was unacceptable. He didn't care, he was pissed off and Mathews was there. The fact that he wasn't pissed off at Mathews -that Mathews wasn't in any way responsible for his insecurities or his ignorance when it came to love and dating- didn't matter. Mathews was there, Buck needed to vent, Mathews got to be the target.

"Well, you won't mind if I have a little pick-me-up."

"Suit yourself. Tell me when you're available to chat."

"Thank you, Caryn," he said, as if to an old friend. Apparently she was. When she was gone he whispered, "The Litewski family, from my first parish. Baptized her myself. She's worked this flight for years. Now where were we?"

The reporter in Buck clawed its way back back to the surface and he realized that this was a perfect opportunity to get Mathews to talk about his early career. Talking about Caryn and his first Parish could be used to segway into why he joined the priesthood, what his experience was like being a simple priest, what he his hopes and dreams had been. Whether he ever saw himself as becoming Pope back then, and if he did what he thought he'd do as Pope. From there it would be easy and natural to move on to how things had changed since then in the church and the world, as well as how Mathews had changed.

By bringing up his first parish Mathews had opened the door to a very personal way to approach talking about Mathews entire career. Even corny questions like, “What do you think the Father Mathews who baptized Caryn would say to Pope Mathews?” could be just the kind specific detail needed to differentiate his article from every other “The man who will be Pope” article that would be flooding the market.

Buck could even interview Caryn to get the view from a parishioner and – Buck suppressed a shudder. The last time he took an interest in a flight attendant he wound up getting her a job for the antichrist and hadn't figured out a way to get her back out again. He'd gone through a thousand things to say in his head, and always came back to the same problem. Anything that she would believe wouldn't convince her to leave, anything he said that might have the power to convince her to leave wouldn't be believed. He needed to find something to make her leave Nicolae's employ that didn't resort to things that she would dismiss as religious fanaticism.

Buck wasn't going to risk screwing with Caryn's life.

Mathews had apparently had his fill of silence, "Oh, yes, you were wondering why I didn't mention the papacy. I guess I thought everyone knew. Carpathia knew."

[After telling Buck that he will very definitely become Pope, and that this will mean much more than being in charge of the Roman Catholic Church, Mathews says:]

"It'll be announced later this morning, and if you do not quote me directly, Ill give you the first shot at it."

Buck thought, Gee, thanks. I work at a weekly magazine. You're giving me the scoop a few hours ahead of time so I can report it days after everyone else. I shall forever be in your debt. Just one question, “Why would you do that?”

"Because I like you."

Right, because everyone who likes me gives me exclusives I can't use, besides, "You hardly know me."

"But I know Nicolae."

Buck sank in his seat. "And,” in spite of an ongoing effort to be as rude as I can be without being killed, “Nicolae likes me."

"Exactly."

Buck wondered what it would take to make Nicolae lose interest. As long as Nicolae was paying attention he couldn't do anything useful, even the slightest indication that he knew the truth and Nicolae would notice and use his domination of the media to shut Buck down. Possibly have Buck killed while he was at it. If Nicolae would just move on, just see Buck as another of the 40,000 reporters in the US, then Buck probably still couldn't publish an article saying, “Nicolae is the ANTICHRIST!!!” but he could come closer. He could lace his writing with insinuation, implications and inconvenient facts and maybe, just maybe, get his readers to make the final connection on their own.

He'd done everything in his power to make himself the kind of employee you don't want and Nicolae was still interested. He didn't know what to do. The others thought he should take the job, but if he did that he'd essentially be extending his moratorium on actual reporting and evangelizing indefinitely. He could probably get information, but there'd be nothing he could do with it. He'd have the power to reach every human being on earth, with the only catch being that if he ever so much as tried to use that power for good he'd lose it.

It was one hell of a catch.

Buck realized that he'd allowed the silence to draw out for far too long. Perhaps he should use that to say something that would make Mathews think that he was arrogant and incredibly dull. Something that made him look to stupid to employ. Then Mathews might report back to Nicolae that Buck wasn't worth the effort. Time to state the obvious. "So this little ride-along was not really entirely the result of my legwork."

"Ah, no," Mathews said.

When Meta-Cameron Met Meta-Chloe: The introduction

2010-10-08T16:07:00.000-07:00

A revisiting of the courtship of Cameron and Chloe with, you know, better characters and whatnot. The LB version with Fred's commentary is here and here.

Cameron’s head was buzzing as he made his way through the airport. The last time he’d felt anything remotely like this was during the ‘MaGog’ incident. The official explanation then was a sophisticated, multi-tiered computer virus code-named MaGog disabled the entire Russian and Iranian war machines in the middle of a strike against Israel. The reality was planes falling from the sky, missiles detonating harmlessly in mid-flight, and a tiny nation escaping the wrath of a former superpower totally unscathed. Any explanation seemed too small for the scale of what he witnessed. Every attempted explanation just made the whole thing seem bigger and more frightening.

Now, it was the massive, world-wide disappearances of every child, as well as a small number of adults, mostly Americans. All anyone could call it was “The Event”, and while there was some official claim of electro-magnetic radiation, once more, the reality was too big for such a small explanation. And every small answer just showed how big this event was.

Cameron was meeting an airline pilot who was in the air at the time of the Event. Cameron hoped the pilot might have seen something, or heard something, or noticed something on his instruments. Clues about the Event had been scarce so far, and Cameron had a deadline for filing his story. Fortunately, he’d met a flight attendant who knew the captain, trading a meet-and-greet with the new U.N. Sec-Gen for the interview. An uneven trade probably, but if this captain could break the story, no one would care about the U.N. for weeks.

Read the rest

He'd almost reached the Pan-Con lounge when he spotted the flight attendant chatting with a man he thought was the pilot from the Event flight. A young, waifish girl stood next to them. As Cameron walked up, Captain Rayford Steele extended his hand.

“So you’re the writer for Global Weekly who was on my plane?” He turned to the airport lounge attendant. “He’s with us.”

Cameron was going to make a quip about ‘your plane? I think the airlines might disagree’ but he looked closer at the young woman and all thoughts left his head. That nervous buzzing he’d felt for the last week, that feeling of uncertain ground under his feet, the nameless fear that could only come from billions of children vanishing in an instant, all of that was blown away by the sight of this young woman next to the airline captain.

“What did you want to interview me about?” the captain asked

Cameron was in his 30’s and had spent his entire adult life and most of his adolescence learning the trade of a reporter. He’d interviewed supermodels backstage in fashion-show changing rooms and spoken to Prime Ministers over coffee, but until now, he’d only ever really related to people as parts of a story he was researching or writing. Something changed inside him when The Event happened, something that had lain dormant until the sight of this young woman. Cameron realized he hadn’t answered the captain’s question.

“I – I want your take on the disappearances. I’m working on a cover story, collecting theories on what happened. You were an eye-witness to the event, on a sealed, isolated plane, sitting in front of a bank of instruments and controls. I was hoping you might have some insight, and at the very least, I think your perspective would make for good copy.”

The captain smiled, seemed to think of something, and smiled even broader.

“Well Mr. Williams, only if you can join us all for dinner after.”

Cameron’s heart raced. The ‘us’ he referred to evidently included the young lady!

“You bet!” Cameron said, “I think I missed an introduction. Is this your…daughter?” He hoped he had come across as nonchalant, but he doubted it.

“Oh, right! Yes, this is my daughter Chloe. Chloe, “Buck” Williams of Global Weekly. He’s a reporter, so watch what you say!” Rayford said, grinning. He wasn’t blind; that young reporter looked shell-shocked when he first looked at Chloe. “I need a few minutes to talk to Hattie; why don’t we meet back here in say, ten minutes?”

Rayford figured the reporter wanted a chance to talk to Chloe for purely unprofessional reasons, but he trusted his daughter, and knew she had a sharp wit. If “Buck” put one foot wrong, she’d take his head and mount it on a wall. He turned to Hattie, and motioned towards the lounge.

**********

“So how do you know my dad again?” Chloe asked

“Actually, I don’t.” Cameron said, turning to stroll down the airport’s shopping concourse, “I saw him briefly get off the plane after the Event, but really Hattie’s the one who introduced us.”

“I see… and how do you know Ms. Durham, the flight attendant?” Chloe probed, one eyebrow raised.

“She caught me fiddling with my laptop and… wait. I was trying to jack into the planes’… hold on. She caught me fooling around with the plane's…” Cameron was starting to blush. Something about the impish look Chloe had was very… suggestive, and suddenly even the most innocent explanations seemed to sound equally suggestive. Cameron had shared plenty of bawdy jokes before, but suddenly he wanted desperately not to sound even remotely lewd to this young woman.

“OK, let me start over. I don’t really know her either, except that she was on the plane during the Event too, and while everything was pretty chaotic after we landed, I was able to talk to her a little. A good reporter tries to cultivate potential leads and sources.”

“Hmm….” Chloe’s curiosity seemed appeased by his answers. Cameron felt a little calmer and more steady.

“So what kind of a name is “Buck” anyhow?”

There went the calm…

“Hey, I thought I was the world-class reporter? Why are you getting all the questions in?”

“Maybe you should be glad that a pretty young girl is interested in you. And I’m not getting all the questions in; you just asked two. Try to keep up! Now, what about that name?” She tossed her hair over one shoulder, pursed her lips, and fixed him with a curious stare.

Cameron slowed his walk, trying to regain mental equilibrium, failed, and decided to keep walking for a bit.

“It’s a nickname. A really annoying one actually. My real name is Cameron.”

“OK, Cameron. How’d you get the nickname?”

Cameron turned slightly, and walked into a gourmet bakery shop. This pretty girl was also smart; the only way he had a chance of getting to know anything about her was if she had her mouth full so he could ask her some questions. He bought two cookies while he talked.

“Well Chloe, I love my job. I’ve always loved investigating and writing and reporting. I was the dorky kid at 12 with the home printing-press. I worked on the high school newspaper.”

“Photo-journalism? Did they call you Cam-with-the-cam? Cam-Cam?” Chloe asked, nearly giggling.

‘Coquettish’ Cameron thought, ‘I’ve never really used that word before, but I think I know exactly what it means.’

“Eat your cookie.” Cameron replied, “Yes, actually they did. The first of many annoying nicknames, and one reason I didn’t go into photo-journalism or AV and stuck with print journalism instead. I was on the high school newspaper, did summer work with the local paper, and went into journalism straight from college. I actually started college summer term; didn’t even take any time off from high school. I got an internship with a major syndicate, spent a year covering the national elections, and got to spend another year in Europe as part of an exchange program. When I got back, my old college editor got me a job with Global Weekly; about what you’d expect for a starting college grad, but it was with GW, so I was excited.”

Cameron paused, took a bite of his own cookie, and waited until Chloe had done the same. He definitely wanted her mouth full before he continued.

“My first day on the job, I got introduced. The section editor I worked for had me stand up in the staff meeting, and played the voice mail from my college editor to introduce me. My college editor was about 60 years old, and I think his brain was transplanted from someone about 100 years old from the way he talked. So I’m standing in front of the staff on my first day, and my introduction is a recording of this grizzled old man’s praise of “I’m ah-sendin’ you boys a bright young buck!” Everyone just about died laughing. “young buck”? Who talks like that? It probably would have died out as a nickname, but when they found out…”

“Found out what?”

Chloe looked over at Cameron, who had stopped strolling. He had looked embarrassed a few times in the conversation, but once he started talking, he seemed to relax. Only now, it seemed like he had said too much, and hadn’t realized what he’d led up to. She realized her quick-witted-sharp-tongued-girl routine might need to be toned down if she was going to get him to continue.

“Tell me. I promise I won’t laugh… much.” Buck turned his head away. Was he actually blushing? Chloe looked at her cookie, still warm from the bakery, and took a large, careless bite, deliberately smearing some melted chocolate along her lips and cheek, before speaking again, this time around a mouthful of cookie.

“I pwomise I wilw take dis seriouswy!” She held up one hand in a mock oath as Cameron looked back. He paused a beat before smiling and laughing.

“OK, OK” he said, and reached out to wipe chocolate off of her cheek with his thumb. “The whole ‘young buck’ thing probably wouldn’t have stuck as a nickname, but one night we all went out after work. They grilled me about my past”, he shot a mock-accusatory glance at Chloe at that, “and they found out I’m a virgin.”

Chloe noted his use of the present tense, but kept her face still.

“Well, after that, 'Young Buck' seemed a lot funnier to them. The first few weeks I was annoyed by it, but I realized that you don’t give nicknames to people you hate, and they were just trying to make me feel at home. In their own small, mean-spirited way." He was gesturing with his free hand. "Besides, there are worse nicknames. Cameron is Spanish for ‘shrimp’, for one. Better a ‘buck’ than a ‘shrimp’, right?”

“You still have chocolate on your thumb.” Chloe deadpanned as she turned towards the airport lounge. “I think we should head back; my dad should be done with his conversation with Hattie. You ready for your one-on-one, Buck?”

She looked back over her shoulder to see Cameron with his thumb in his mouth, probably licking the chocolate off; she tried to make her smile and glance look light and flirty so he knew her teasing wasn’t mean-spirited. Judging by the pole-axed look on his face, all he knew for sure was that he was out of his league when it came to flirting.

Author's note: I shot my mouth off in a comment thread about how it should be possible to write the courtship between Cameron and Chloe in a way that would still be chaste and 'Christian' and still be realistic. So now I'm trying to put my money where my mouth is. And naturally, I have no experience or practice writing romance. Chloe needs to be more of the young college student: educated, flirty, the kind of woman who could travel across the country, post-Event and be relatively unscathed. Meanwhile, CallMeBuck has to have reasons to
a.) still be a virgin
b.) want to pursue a chaste, 'proper' courtship
c.) appear to be a horribly incompitent reporter
And if I can rehabilitate Rayford even a little around the edge, well, that's just gravy.

Cookie Love, Part 2

2010-10-04T16:03:00.000-07:00

[Author’s Note: This isn’t, technically, a story that takes place in the reality-based version of Left Behind. It’s simply an attempt to respond to the latest T.F. post by writing a love story…about cookies and airports.]

Sam shuffled in to the security line, glad to be rid of her giant suitcase. She craned her neck and attempted to look between the shoulders and heads of the people ahead of her. Every once in a while she caught a glimpse of a shaggy head of hair rising head and shoulders above almost every one else. Once he turned, caught her eye and smiled. She couldn’t help but smile back.

It had been a strange week, that was for sure.

She certainly hadn’t planned on having anything to do with boys during the trip to DC. It had only been a couple weeks ago that she’d decided to take a much needed break. Freshman year of high school was the last time she’d been single, after all.

Not that she’d planned it that way, really. Throughout junior high she’d been ignored. She’d lacked sports acumen and wasn’t exactly surrounded by people who admired her for the A grades that littered her report cards. She was an egghead, everyone had said, a teacher’s pet. It wasn’t a good way to make friends or gain popularity.

Freshman year had been worse. While all her friends were starting to date and go to dances she was overlooked. And it wasn’t just because she was lower than everyone else’s field of vision. Everyone seemed to look past or through her. She was a no one, a nobody. And it hurt. It didn’t matter that she attended Waubonsie Valley, a suburban Chicago school so vast it had multiple campuses, separated by class year. It didn’t matter that it was almost impossible to be noticed in such a place. She wanted to make a name for herself.

She’d spent the summer after her freshman year out at her grandparents’ house in Rhode Island. For reasons she didn’t understand at the time several of the local boys noticed her and spent the summer subtly, at least in their minds, jockeying for her attention. She’d figured out then that boys were actually pretty easy, if you knew what you were doing.

Basically, you needed to do something that made you stand out. After you got some attention you just had to get their competitive juices flowing. Once they were all trying to get past each other there was nothing more to it.

Newly confident, she’d returned to school in the fall with a more open personality, more ready smile, and a penchant for a sexier wardrobe. She hadn’t wanted to go for the slut look, just less plain and more eye-catching than she’d ever worn before. But that was just step one.

Step 2 was about rejection. Specifically of the first few boys who actually did notice her and tried to ask her out. The first time, she’d been forced to admit, felt pretty good. She had power, the feeling of controlling someone else’s emotions and destiny. It hadn’t hurt that the boy in question was Tommy Gilchrist, who she’d had a major crush on in junior high and had rejected her the previous year when she’d asked him to Turnabout.

The next couple after that weren’t nearly so satisfying. One of them was a rather sweet, awkward guy named Ben who probably hadn’t even noticed her change of attitude or wardrobe. But he didn’t fit in with her concept of who she was and what she wanted to be, so she’d just shot him down without giving it much thought until later.

By the time she really took to self reflection, though, her strategy had begun to pay off. There was something about being regarded as a stone cold bitch that got everyone’s attention. Not all of it was good attention, of course, but as the old saying goes, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

She’d made sure to keep up her grades while rebranding herself. By graduation she had the one of the highest GPAs in her class, a mound of ex-boyfriends and a reputation as a slut with a Napoleon complex. Her plan had been to skip most of that during college. She’d figured she’d meet a nice guy and they’d fall in love over poetry and foreign films or some other such stereotypical college romance fantasy.

It hadn’t worked out that way. She’d discovered right off the bat that college boys were just as easy to manipulate as high school boys. Maybe even more so. She’d also discovered that they had no interest in deep discussions of Keats, Kafka, or Kieslowski. At least, not the ones she seemed to meet.

She’d also discovered that the word “slut” wasn’t really tossed around too much in college. Everyone was doing it, after all. It was easier to just keep doing what she’d been doing before. She didn’t have to think about it too much, didn’t have to risk getting her heart broken. And she’d gotten used to always having someone around, even if she was sure she only wanted him for a little while.

Over Christmas break that year she’d run in to Ben. He’d told her that he’d met a girl his freshman year in college and was seriously considering proposing to her. As he’d spoken he’d gotten this faraway look, like there was nothing in the world but his beloved.

A little voice in the back of her head said, “That could be you he’s talking about.”

When she got back to campus she’d tried to go back to her normal life. But in the back of her mind all she could think about was how much she’d fucked up, how in trying so damn hard to be what she wanted to be she’d become someone she didn’t want to be. She found herself waking up in the middle of the night and crying.

One night about a month ago she’d woken her then-temporary-boyfriend. He’d sat up, looked at her, and said, “Wanna fool around?”

She’d kicked him out of her room before he’d managed to get his pants all the way on. Several floormates had been drawn out of bed by the sound of her screaming, forcing him in to what she was sure was a deeply embarrassing retreat. She didn’t care. Six years of bottled up anger and repressed self-loathing had chased him out in to that hallway.

She’d felt lighter, somehow. More flexible. Almost like she could go for a run and lift right off the concrete.

The next morning she’d decided to swear off boys for a while. The upcoming trip to DC had seemed like a good opportunity to make it stick.

That first morning she’d seen the big, awkward kid nervously glancing at her across the room. Something about him had just made her want to go over and hug him, tell him he’d be okay. At lunch time she’d finally figured out why. He reminded her, just a little, of Ben.

It had really just been a mad impulse that had led her to go talk to him on the Mall. His confusion and fright had been cute, in that way that lost puppies are cute. His obvious, stuttering inability to explain why it was strange and disturbing that they had the same name was endearing. Then they’d sat and talked about books and movies and she hadn’t wanted it to end.

What had been a somewhat altruistic attempt to exorcise her own demons and convince herself that she wasn’t just a calculating slut and not a stone cold bitch had become something else. The rest of the week had gone by in a whirlwind of all-day lectures and long night time conversations with Sam. That thought brought a smile as she heard him say her full name, drawing out the second and third syllables as if to draw attention from the fact that the first syllable was the same for both.

She’d taken to calling him “Samuel” as a joke. He’d seemed somehow pleased with that.

Again she craned her neck. Sam was looking for her.

They locked eyes. She winked. He smiled.

But she could have sworn it looked like he was blinking back tears.

Cookie Love, Part 1

2010-09-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

[Author’s Note: This isn’t, technically, a story that takes place in the reality-based version of Left Behind. It’s simply an attempt to respond to the latest T.F. post by writing a love story…about cookies and airports.]

Sam stood up and hefted his bag as the bus rolled to a squeaking, rumbling stop outside the main terminal at Dulles. He trudged down the center aisle, staring at the floor. It was, without a doubt, the worst day of his life.

His classmates were noisy, excited, ready to get back to their lives. Tom Jenkins – the closest thing to a friend Sam had in the group – bumped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, man, get moving. The faster you go the faster we can get to one of the parties on Adams.”

Sam obliged, picking up the pace. But he didn’t want to get back, he wanted to stay. He stepped off the bus, hoping and praying for news of a delayed flight. Lake effect snow, perhaps, causing a freak white out. It was a highly unlikely occurrence, though. Even Chicago weather didn’t get crazy enough for snowstorms in late May.

Still, if there was any tiny bit of a possibility that the universe cared about Sam’s happiness, he knew something would happen. And a blizzard in May would be a pretty good sign.

He looked to his left, scanning the knot of students next to where the ISU bus had already nearly emptied out. The face he most wanted to see was nowhere and for a moment he wondered if she was already gone. But, no, that wasn’t possible. He’d seen her get on the bus, waved at her in that last moment before she disappeared in to the dark world of tinted windows and frayed upholstery.

Then, suddenly, the crowd parted and she emerged, smiling, dragging a blue suitcase that was big enough for her to pack herself in and fly home for just the cost of a checked bag fee and an incredibly uncomfortable flight. It was funny, he realized for the first time, how someone so tiny could have a smile so big and eyes that seemed to hold the entire world.

He shouldered his bag and walked towards her. They met between the two busses and he stopped to hug her. She stood on her tip toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“So this is it, huh?” she said as they drew apart. Her smile faltered for just a moment.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Well,” she shrugged, “At least our gates are right next to each other. So we’ve got a little while longer.”

“Yeah,” he smiled at the thought, “I guess we do.”

“Okay, everyone,” Professor Briggs shouted, “Let’s get moving. We’ve got to get through baggage check.”

They parted company. For an agonizing hour he waited in the baggage line and then the security line, feeling every second tick by on the clock while he reflected on every moment he’d spent with her and thought about how unlikely the whole thing was. He still couldn’t believe it had happened, still wanted to deny it was already over.

Sam had grown up in a small town in the middle of the vast corn and soy fields of western Illinois. He’d had his first real growth spurt in the fourth grade and practically overnight found that he was in possession of a body that was far too big for his reflexes to control. He had also instantly lost any chance to excel at sports.

In junior high and then high school the coaches of all the teams had wanted him. They’d seen the kid who stood head and shoulders above everyone else and assumed he would make their team unstoppable. But every time someone threw him a ball he’d drop it. Every time he tried to run and do something else at the same time he’d trip over his own feet.

Eventually he’d stopped trying to be what his coaches wanted him to be. Eventually they’d stopped trying to figure out how to turn him in to what they needed. And with that he’d just kind of dropped off the social radar at his high school.

Sam didn’t really mind. He’d discovered he was more at home tinkering with computers or lost in the pages of books. He might not have gotten invited to parties on Friday nights, but he’d realized at some point that he didn’t much like them, anyway.

Still, there was one problem that came with his glaring lack of a social life. In a school where most of the activities and attention revolved around parties, sports, and the activities of the 4-H Club or the Future Farmers of America, the quiet kid who stayed home and tinkered with computers didn’t get much attention. Especially from girls.

That, of course, didn’t mean that he paid them no attention. Like any teenage boy he’d spent his days in class daydreaming about how to get the attention of the pretty girls in his class. And there had been no shortage of pretty girls to choose from.

The endless cropscape of the vast, long-tamed former American frontiers that stretch across the endless Great Plains and fertile Midwest long ago created a new stock character for the bards of rock, blues, and country music to write endless songs and the writers to pen endless novels about. She is the character known as a “small town beauty.” Born of parents who still work with their hands, corn-fed and healthy, the small town beauty beguiles all who come across her. She might be a blue-eyed blonde or a green-eyed brunette, but she always has the same story.

She grew up in a small town on the edge of that vast frontier wilderness that still exists in fiction. She spent her early years running through the woods, riding horses, and learning to hunt, fish, and cook over an open fire. As she got older she would spend her Sunday mornings properly dressed and in her family’s usual pew in church, smiling to herself about her Saturday nights spent driving too fast and teasing the boys to distraction.

In the songs and in the books the small town beauty is always eighteen going on nineteen. She’s forever immortalized in that place between innocence and knowledge, youth and experience, the small town and the huge world. She is bronzed skin, easy smiles, taught muscles, and wide-eyed wonder.

The big problem with the small town beauty is that she doesn’t exist. She is the amalgamation of the hopes and dreams of men searching for a lost utopia. She is the invention of marketing genius. She is the renewal of the cultural memory of Helen of Troy, that face so beautiful she launched a thousand ships and a ten-year war.

The slightly-less-big problem with the small town beauty is that there is a germ of truth to the story. In those small towns in Illinois there are an awful lot of girls who spent their days outside running, jumping, and working. There are an awful lot of girls who learned how to shoot a deer at eight and replace a carburetor at ten. There are an awful lot of girls who love fast cars and teasing boys with their smiles and bronzed skin.

All of them seemed to make it in to Sam’s integrated school district.

None of them ever noticed Sam.

Sam, unfortunately, never quite managed to push either one of those facts out of his mind.

He’d dreamed about the day Jenny DuBois would notice him. He’d imagined how great it would be if Anne Montgomery one day realized how much more interesting it was to talk to him than the meatheads she usually dated. By the time he graduated from high school he’d had a scenario dreamed up for how he’d gain the attentions and affections of practically every girl in his school. But none had ever come even remotely close to reality.

When he left home for Western Illinois University he’d been excited. It was a chance to re-invent himself. It was a chance to meet girls from all over who had no idea that he was the awkward, dorky kid who never got noticed. He knew he’d take the school by storm, figure out how to prove to everyone how cool he could be.

Unfortunately, however, the dorky, awkward version of himself was the only one Sam knew. He’d been just as tongue-tied as ever in the presence of girls he met on campus. He’d been just as likely to want to spend his weekends with a book or sitting in front of a computer screen.

The upside, though, was that he’d gotten excellent grades and attracted the attention of his professors. So during his sophomore year when a week-long seminar in Washington, DC in cooperation with a group from Illinois State University was presented, Professor Briggs had suggested that Sam sign up. Even though all of the students going were juniors or seniors.

On the first day in Washington the two groups had basically been allowed to meet and mingle. During the introductory breakfast he’d stood back and scanned to crowd from the edges, still a little intimidated by being the youngest there and the only one who obviously didn’t have a lot of friends and acquaintances in the group.

He’d found his eyes lingering on one particular girl from the ISU side for reasons he couldn’t really understand. She was about as unlike those tall, tanned, small town girls he’d left behind. “Short” and “pale,” were, in fact, the words he’d use to describe her. Also, even though he had no idea what the term was really supposed to mean, he kept thinking, “mousy.”

But there was just…something…about her. Perhaps it was the way she smiled at jokes and laughed with a lilting tone that carried even to where he stood. Perhaps it was the way her eyes twinkled when she smiled. Maybe it was the carefree way she threw her dishwater-blonde hair over her shoulder. He didn’t know.

At one point she’d looked right at him as he’d looked at her. She smiled that wide smile of hers at him. He’d looked away, cheeks burning with embarrassment, vowing to not look at the strangely mesmerizing girl for the rest of the week.

It hadn’t worked.

The two groups had spent the morning touring the area around the White House and Capitol Hill. At lunch gathered on the National Mall for prepared box lunches. They contained a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a cookie.

Sam had sat down to eat his sandwich.

All of the sudden she’d been in front of him, brandishing a cookie. “Hey, um, you wouldn’t happen to have an oatmeal raisin cookie, would you? I’ll trade you this chocolate chip cookie for it.”

He’d stared at her for a moment that was probably just long enough to stretch from awkward to uncomfortable. When he’d managed to regain his senses he’d looked at his own cookie. “No,” he’d said, heart falling. “Sorry. I’ve got chocolate chip, too.”

“Oh,” she’d said, “Too bad.” Then she’d sat down. “You win some, you lose some, right?”

“Y-yeah,” he’d stammered out, “I guess.”

“I’m Sam. Well, Samantha. But everyone calls me Sam.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s awkward.”

“Y’know,” she’d replied, a look made up of equal parts confusion and amusement working its way across her face, “I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who’s ever thought that.”

Grin and Bear It

2010-09-28T19:50:00.000-07:00

"Arcoss the corridor Ellie watched the man roll his eyes at Donny and make a big gesture of handing some money to the woman with him. One of her Grandfather's saltier expressions came to her, "You can forget a face but you'll never forget an asshole." She'd dealt with him before too.

She finished wiping down the outside windows of UnBearably Cute, it was ghoulish how quickly the company had regrouped. But there was a grim kind of hope in it, perhaps if the grinding economics of making it day to day still existed the good and the beautiful did too. Or at least would return in time.

The memos sent in the four weeks after The Event when the company had decided to reopen some of its stores were carefully worded and to the point. Down went the pictures of children posing with the store's selection of bears and other animals, and for the time being the Baby Bear model and all accessories were pulled. Only the basic bear, Peter Ribbit the Frog, and Flip the Flamingo were displayed.

A new model, Doc Bear, had a display in the corner. A sign told lookers that all proceeds from the sale of this item went to The Rebirth Project. The Rebirth Project had been making press as a group of scientists of all stripes coming together to see if humanity was still capable of reproducing, how to protect these possible new preganacies, and in finding out if humanity would survive perhaps uncover a clue to the missing children.

Missing, they were still using that word, but as every day ticked by Ellie saw the look in parents' eyes get more and more hollow. She almost didn't want to come back to work but as time went on she saw that while corporate might have just been interested in getting the bottom line moving again the store gave people a way to face their grief.

People walked in the store now carefully, almost as if they were entering an old graveyard. Some bought animals already made, some took their time making their own, all the little clothes for them had been pulled but when a customer asked Ellie would go and get what they wanted. She saw them leave the toys in lines at the windows, or by the makeshift morgue tents, dotted with candles and flowers. Some walked out with them clutched tightly in their arms.

And then some just cried. They would walk in, almost seeming to not notice where they were. They would walk to a pile of bear skins waiting to be stuffed or the mural of dancing animals and just break down. It was a delicate affair, some wanted to talk, some just wanted to be left alone. It had been one of the latter when he'd walked in asking to use an outlet because his laptop battery was low.

Actually he'd prefaced it "I'm a member, platnium, of the Pan Con Lounge. I have to get this email sent to my editor at the Global Weekly, I'm the senior staff writer." There was a pause were he seemed to expect her to recognize him from this info. Another pause, he was completely oblivious to the woman weeping not three feet away. Ellie blinked, "Of course sir, there's an outlet right by that shelf."

Looking none too pleased that she hadn't recognized him or asked his name he sat on the floor and plugged his laptop in. Ellie glanced at the woman and quietly walked over. "Could I get you something Ma'am? There's a nice cookie place across the hall, would you like a coffee or some tea?" The woman calmed down and dabbed her eyes, "I'll be okay, I've got to get to my gate soon, yes...yes, some coffee would be nice." She opened her purse to fish for her wallet, Ellie stopped her. "It's on me, I won't be a minute."

She was as good as her word and handed the coffee to the greatful woman who soon left. Ellie walked to the register to pick back up her book trying not to look at the man on the floor watching her intently. "Probably wondered why I didn't ask him if he wanted something," she thought, "well I can be petty too." She sat behind the reigster and glanced across the hall at Sheila and waved.

She hadn't really met Sheila until after The Event. She popped in once for a bottled water when she'd started working, and Sheila offered her a free cookie. Explaining she was diabetic Sheila switched the offer to a sugar free drink and Ellie hadn't had to pay for her Diet Sprites since.

But they hadn't really talked until after Ellie had spent hours telling the FBI that she saw her coworker Jane vanish into thin air and her clothes crumple into a pile on the floor. And did she ever wish she had an explanation but she didn't. She really didn't, and she really wanted one. Sheila had gone through pretty much the same thing.

Sheila was the first to spot Donny, and Ellie's heart glowed that some of the good and the beautiful was still here watching Sheila's kindness toward him and how he began to come out of his shell a bit. She thought about walking over there to tell the man off but let it go. He was already sauntering away like some hero who thought he'd won an important battle the woman a few steps behind, looking sumpremely embarassed at his antics.

Ellie pulled down the gate the same time as Donny and they walked towards each other. She smiled, "Kevin at duty free brought in some of his Aunt's amazing lasagna to share, want some?" Donny nodded, "He won't be upset you brought someone else along?" Ellie almost started to cry, "Nah, in fact he asked me to bring you along, let's go."

Happy Eighth Birthday

2010-09-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

Eight years ago today, the earliest post now associated with Mr. Clark's Left Behind criticism appeared. It was "In the sweet by and by," about the "birthday" of laws that laid the foundation for the coexistence of Christian slavers with Christian slaves.

In a few weeks, on October 17th, it will be eight years since Slacktivist started his in depth examination of the poor writing, crap theology, and evil nature of the Left Behind books. I've been a fan of this series for (as far as I can tell) about six years, and I can still remember when the comments weren't paginated (in fact, the majority of my posts were back when they weren't). I'm pretty certain that I started reading these posts while I was in college, but I can't be certain which college or which year it was.

Throughout that time, Slacktivist has been the blog that has held my attention the best with every post and through every year. For years it is the blog that I most look forward to reading, with heavy anticipation for new upcoming entries both about the Left Behind series or not.

Slacktivist/Fred himself has gone through some changes, in the workplace and in his personal life, but has been a constant source of brilliant analysis, evocative language and Christian morality over these years.

I think that the readers will agree that there is one truly great thing that has come out of LeHaye and Jenkins' Left Behind: Slacktivist's criticism of it. Thanks, Fred, for eight years of dedication to something that has changed our perspective of the world's worst books.

18 months later

2010-08-11T16:44:00.000-07:00

Adapted from a brilliant comment by Chris the Cynic:

It didn't feel like a good idea, but Chloe was right. It was their best hope. Nicolae was the most powerful man on earth, imbued with power that seemed to be without any coherent bounds, and given that he was willing to oppose God himself he might be open to their mission. If anyone could oppose Jerry it would be Nicolae.

And if something was going to be done, it had to be now. Since an indeterminate number of people had been taken, naked, into Heaven Jerry had monitored what seemed like every single incomprehensible waking moment. They had been forced on rails through the surreal return to normality that had followed the worst disaster in history.

The time they had to themselves had always been in scattered stolen moments. There was never the opportunity to actually try to do anything. Jerry even micromanaged things like conversations about the logistics of a takeout dinner.

It had seemed hopeless, then there were three words that gave them all hope: Eighteen months later.

The prospect of a year and a half without Jerry looking over their shoulder gave them hope for the first time in what seemed like forever. If they were going to oppose Jerry, this universe's ruler and creator, they would need to act in this window because another one might not arise. And they would need allies.

Buck reminded himself of all of this, took a deep breath, adjusted his shirt for the thirty seventh time, and stepped into the Antichrist's office. Within a few minutes Nicolae was laughing. Loudly.

Eventually Nicolae stopped laughing and when he caught his breath he addressed Buck:
-

Buck Willams left the UN building and walked quickly to the nearest phone. He wasn't sure how much of a head start Nicolae would give him. Chloe answered, when she asked him what happened he said, "I can't tell you over the phone. Pack light and be ready to run." He was going to end the conversation there, but decided to add one thing. "Remember how you said you wanted to use a crossbow on bad guys?" She did. "Buy a crossbow."

Ray Goes to Church pt. 4

2010-08-02T16:27:00.000-07:00

Ray drove down the street, inching along slowly. The streets were filled with debris and it was clear no one was coming to clear it out. The rows of neat suburban houses had been gutted by fire and many were still burning. He raised his collar with one hand to shelter himself from the smell.

Chloe and Vivian lay in the back covered by a tarp, along with their stores of canned food and bottled water. Neither made a sound as Ray struggled along the streets, except for Chloe who wept continuously. He had tried to comfort the two girls, tried to be the brave Alpha male who investigated crashing sounds in the night, but words were useless now. The world had gone mad and nothing was going to be the same again.

He remembered when he was a boy, terrorists destroyed the twin towers. Everyone had been shocked and scared then and maybe they made decisions that history would consider regretful, but society had remained intact. People bonded together and tried to make the best of a horrible new reality. He could remember holding his parents' hands as they went down to the blood bank to donate blood, how he and his classmates made cards for people hospitalized by the disaster. In spite of the horror, society managed to survive, but things were different now. The terrorists or God or whoever did this hadn't just succeeding in taking people; they'd ripped out the soul of the world.

Chloe continued to cry. "Will you be quiet?" Ray snapped. He was tired of her tears, tired of tears all together. He wanted his old life back with his old job piloting planes, his wife, his son, and his vivacious daughter, not this broken shell who wouldn't stop crying.

"Piss off." Vivian snarled. Immediately he regretted his words. He shouldn't have snapped at Chloe, not when he had spent most of his time in a hidey-hole crying. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't of said what I said."

"Damn right, you shouldn't of," Vivian said. He sighed. He shouldn't be surprised that her nerves were as frayed as his, but there was so much he needed to know if he was going to help Chloe, so he decided to ask the question, even though he had a sneaking suspicion of the answer. "Vivian, just how did you and Chloe get all the way from Stanford to here?"

"How do you think," Vivian said. Her sneer softened and took on a haunted cast. "How do you think two young college girls with little money and valuables got across the country? We whored ourselves. We'd take turns, me on one ride, her on the next, sleeping with whatever sleazy creeps would give us a ride. It wasn't that big a deal, mostly one or two guys here and there, but the last stop..." She took a deep breath. "I think twenty guys had her."

Ray felt the air leave his lungs. He had known the truth even before he'd asked, but still hearing it...He stepped on the brakes and gasped. The church was gone, reduced to burned rubble. Only its steel frame remained and from it, the remains of Bruce Barnes hanged.

There was little left of the pastor who had greeted him with a shotgun, just bones and pulp covered in spray paint. Ray immediately felt ashamed. Why hadn't he been here? He should have tried to help the young pastor who was so desperate to protect his flock from the marauding gangs. Bruce, who showed more courage and compassion than his boss, Vernon Billings, could ever know.

He wondered if Bruce ever had a chance to fire his shotgun at the marauders or if they got him completely by surprise. Did Loretta or any of the others make it out alive? He knew what Bruce would have done. Bruce would have held them off as long as he could in order to help his flock escape.

But as he sat there, pondering Bruce's fate, a young hoodlum stuck his face through where the driver's side window used to be. "Whaddya think you're doing here?" he said.

The kid looked to be about sixteen tops, but it was hard to tell with all the grease and spray paint on his face and the mad gleam in his eye. He started yelling and screaming like a banshee, trying to force the door open. Ray thought only of the girls in the back and reached for his gun and fired.

The kid fell to the ground, a red blossom forming on his chest. Ray felt sick. What have I done? This was just a kid, desperate and starving like everyone else, and I shot him. But he was a threat. If he knew about Chloe and Vivian...But what if he was just driven mad like everyone else? Ray could feel his undigested Dinty Moore threatening to resurface, but whatever had happened, there was nothing he could do. The kid was dead and he had to move on if he wanted to keep Vivian and Chloe alive.

Malevolent Father, Part One

2010-07-30T19:03:00.000-07:00

Hey, first story here, looking forward to adding more. This one was my attempt to make Nicolae a bit more interesting, and to make the pervading indifference in LB a bit more sinister.

***

When he was young, the voice had been his special friend. It had told him he was destined for great things.

When he was a little older, he found out what exactly those things were. Then, he called it the Malevolence. It was a good word. He'd found it in a dictionary.

Later, of course, he gave in to the insistent demands and learned to love the voice and call it Father.

Privately, however, he still thought of its effect as 'Malevolence.' His Father's influence lay heavy upon the lands. He could feel it all around him; hadn't he seen it so clearly when the people had failed to react to the disappearance of their children?

They seemed to go along with anything he said.

Nicolae.

"Yes, Father?"

They are waiting for you, Nicolae.

"Why do so many of them just buckle under? I've tried to make them react, and I have to go so far before they snap out of it."

This is my will, Nicolae. They cannot defy me. They are mine as you are mine, and all shall be mine hereafter. Only the strongest-willed among them may even struggle.

"...What about that Buck, then? He seems immune, even to my powers."

My powers, Nicolae. Your powers are my powers. Cherish your pride, but do not forget the source of your strength. There was a wicked little insubstantial chuckle. That one is not strong-willed. He and his companions are my gift to you, Nicolae. I have not affected them save to offer them the void into which compassion drains when obsession takes its place. And they have embraced it. They are yours to corrupt and toy with, for what are the greatest without some foe to crush? Cameron Williams I have given unto you, and you will learn the joys of power by subverting them. They are fools. They believe He will protect them. A King without subjects is no King at all. They are poor fodder, but they will suffice for now, my little Prince.

Nicolae Carpathia rubbed his temples, feeling the dark joy of the words threading through his bloodstream. "Yes... they will suffice." Something almost like love gleamed in his eyes. "Thank you, my Father, for your gifts to me."

***

It was so easy. At times like this, Nicolae began to understand why his Father had been so confident. Those the Malevolence had touched obeyed without thought; those stronger but vulnerable crumbled swiftly enough before Nicolae's own abilities, their struggles adding a deeply pleasurable counterpoint to their eventual submission.

And 'Buck'? He and all of his companions were the most delightful of all. They were so easy to confound, and best of all, they would go along with him anyway. No matter what they thought of him, they would convince themselves that this was right, and in the face of their wilful self-deception he needn't do a thing but watch and smile and maybe ponder again if he could break dear Cameron just so and see him serve more intimately.

Sweet Hattie, he thought, had been marvellously eager to aid him. All she required was some modicum of respect, the validation she had never before been granted. She'd told him everything, one night, and he'd given her his Father's smile and promised on his life that everything would change for her now.

She'd given him every key he needed for the doleful band of misfits piously vowing amongst each other that they would oppose him.

It had, admittedly, taken a little time to find a way to monitor them; he had been unable to believe how small they'd kept their group. He almost wished they had proclaimed his secret far and wide and gathered some righteous army against him; the victory would have been so much sweeter.

Still, you worked with what you were given, and his Father had given him so much.

Harvest of Souls, Chapter Eight

2010-07-12T07:01:00.000-07:00

Pillar of Fire

"I was drunk in a bar. They threw me out 'in publi-k'" Moses muttered to himself as he limp-staggered out onto the sidewalk and narrowly avoided veering randomly into the street. He teetered, arms pinwheeling, barely managing to right himself. It was hard enough getting his natural leg to cooperate. The prosthetic was stubbornly resistant to his will, such as it was. Through a drunken haze, he became dimly aware that there were a lot more sirens blaring than normal, even for the south side of Chicago. Especially this late at night.

He wove his way to the nearest intersection, flailed, then managed to grab a lamp post to steady himself so he could look around.

"...the hell?" There were plumes of smoke rising from around the city. After a few moments’ wobbly, slack-jawed gaping, he fished from the murky depths of his mind the awareness that most of them were clustered in the general direction of O’Hare Airport. For a moment, the night became a blazing, dusty afternoon. Storefronts guarded by wrought-iron bars over windows and locked gates shielding doors turned into a tight-packed maze of sand-colored boxes with small windows, dominated by the occasional minarets-and-dome of a mosque. Rattling AK-47’s and the 3-round bursts from American Marines and soldiers. Columns of greasy smoke smearing into the sky. The whop-whop-whop of an Apache helicopter hanging in the air ready to unleash torrents of death like some fearsome alien insect-god...

...the whop-whop-whop of a police chopper, or maybe a news bird, less authoritative and definitely less lethal. Moses was breathing faster now, the fingers of his free hand trembling. A hiss from further down the street. Miniature geyser of steam, coming from a car that had plowed into a power pole. Moses started blundering toward it. It was a slick ride, a new black Infiniti.

"Y’all gonna be real happy t’ see a drunk black man, now ain’t ya," he mumbled, but kept going. Then he froze, his eyes locked to a bright yellow ribbon on the car’s back bumper. We Support Our Troops! the sticker proudly declared. “Oh, you muthafuckas. Muthafuckas! All gung ho for wars you ain’t gotta fight! Where were you when they was stop-lossin’ people and sendin’ us back for our fourth tours? You put a gun in the hands o’ your preppy white boy an’ sign ‘im up so’s a regular man could get a break? Where were you when we started comin’ back all maimed and fucked in the head?!” he said, stabbing at his temple with a sausage-sized index finger.

“Where were you when we needed armor for our Humvees and bulletproof fucking vests? Where the hell were you when Fuckabee was cutting the V.A. so he could afford another tax cut for alla you rich assholes? Huh? Where the fuck were you?! ‘Support the Troops' my black ass!” he shouted, flipping the car off. The ferocity of the gesture threatened his precarious balance, and he had to concentrate for a few seconds so he could avoid meeting the sidewalk up close and personal.

“Fuck, there might be kids in there…” he grumbled, and reluctantly put one foot in front of the other. “Awww, heyell no!” he snapped, feeling a new surge of anger. In Case of Rapture, This Vehicle Will Be Unoccupied. Suddenly, he burst into bitter laughter. “Well, I guess you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that no more do ya, you smug cocksuckers!”

He tried to turn around. The world spun, then he was jogging toward an old minivan with golf-ball sized holes punched through its windshield and hood, his M14 DMR raised to his shoulder. The sun, the ever hateful sun. Terrible high-pitched shrieks coming from the van. Hand-signaling his platoon to cover him as he slid the side door open.

He never knew if the wide, dark eyes of the little girl with a gaping, bloody divot where her right shoulder was supposed to be had ever recognized him for what he was…the spotter who had called down the hail of armor-piercing DU rounds on the suspicious vehicle. But those eyes would always accuse him.

Moses tried to shut his eyes, but the vision was inside his head, and it wouldn’t go away until she wanted it to. Until she forced him to see the light fade from those eyes to a soundtrack of feeble whines and gasps of agony. Tears squeezed through his pinched-tight eyelids, trickling down his cheeks. Choking back sobs, he turned back to the car and stumbled toward it.

“Anybody in there? You alright?” he called out as he reached the car and leaned against it for support. No answer. He leaned down to peer through the rear passenger window. No one. He sidestepped to the driver’s side door. Locked. The window was full of the slowly-sagging marshmallow bulk of an airbag. “Hello? I jus’ wanna get you some help. C’mon, somebody talk to me…” He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone. It took a moment to make the smearing, blurry, tiny little numbers on the buttons make some kind of sense, and even longer to dial the all-important three digit number.

“Hello?” He said the moment a woman’s voice came on. “There’s been a wreck, on--“ He started to look around, trying to find street signs when he realized the woman had ignored him.

“--circuits are busy. Please try again.” Moses gave the phone an accusing glare, and pulled his arm back to pitch the damn thing, then thought better of it. Slipping the phone back in his pocket, he lay down over the crumbled hood and started pushing and tearing at the torn sheets of safety glass that had once been a windshield. Finally pushing through, he fought with the airbag until it deflated enough for him to see the driver.

Who wasn’t there.

But his clothes were, still strapped snugly in place by the driver’s seat belt. Moses belly-crawled further into the car. The passenger…also missing. An elegant evening gown crumpled over the diagonal shoulder-belt as if bowing in supplication.

For long moments, Moses stared at the scene with incomprehension. Then he remembered. The bumper sticker.

A poorly-acted, cheesy, church-basement film David had tried to get him to watch and take seriously. Piles of abandoned clothes left on sidewalks, an abandoned lawnmower growling in front of its owner’s T-shirt, shorts and sandals. A disconsolate Labrador whining as it dragged a masterless leash. A voice-over earnestly describing global chaos, followed by a wooden actor trying to be the ultra-charismatic Secretary General of the United Nations who was destined to be Hitler and Stalin and Mao all rolled into one, even though his stilted speeches sounded like they’d been cribbed from Gandhi.

“Not funny…Not. Fucking. Funny!” Moses shouted as he scrambled back out of the car, tripped over his prosthetic leg and landed hard on his butt on the curb. He struggled to his feet between episodes of arm-pinwheeling and efforts to move his clumsy, obsolete prosthetic into a position where it could support him. “You can come out now! What show is this? David?” By now, a few other pedestrians had entered the adjacent blocks, but they all halted warily a safe distance away. “Okaaaay! Y’all got your big goddamn laugh! America’s Funniest Fucking Home Videos…?”

His voice echoed from the graffiti-covered storefronts. No cameramen emerged from the shadows. No smirking TV host or group of friends or family exploding with laughter. Only the whine of jet engines getting louder. And louder. “Oh, goddammit!” Moses snarled, bracing himself for whatever wartime memory was about to mount an assault.

Chicago didn’t disappear this time. Instead, the lurking pedestrians started looking skyward. Moses followed their gaze. An airliner was flying low…too low, wings canted at an odd angle. Instincts took over, and Moses dove for the deck. “GET DOWN! GET THE FUCK DOWN! NOW!” he bellowed, then tried to squeeze his muscular bulk under the car.

A deafening cacophony blinded his senses to all else. Screeching metal, shattering brick and concrete, screams and expletives from the passersby. Then, a roar and a world turned to an yellow-orange Hell. A blizzard of shattered shop-window glass, jagged rocky pieces, and chunks of hot, twisted metal. Chicago became Baghdad became Fallujah became Chicago became a half dozen Afghan villages became Chicago again. The storm of shrapnel subsided, but larger chunks of savaged aluminum continued to rattle to the ground.

Moses again fought his way to his feet, ignoring an array of scrapes, cuts, and minor burns. His namesake’s pillar of fire stood three blocks away, announcing the return of a wrathful God.

…

Moses didn’t know how many hours had passed by the time he was standing in front of Shauna’s door, shirtless. His memory held flashes of tearing cloth into strips for bandages, or maybe tourniquets. Training, running a body whose mind cowered in some internal basement. Lurching from person to person in clumsy, jerking movements that would have delighted George Romero. The blare of an approaching fire truck, come at last. Glimpses of a solitary walk through dark urban canyons that gradually turned into an apocalyptic landscape as people woke into the first night of the End of the World.

Friday Change Jar, Tri-State Bird Rescue & Research

2010-06-04T20:00:00.000-07:00

Of all the heartbreaking images from the Gulf oil spill the ones that have gotten me the most are of the birds. Call it a never suppressed wish that I could fly but I love birds. Especially sea birds. Gulls squabbling among themselves, the humorous dignity of a pelican, watching sandpipers dart with lighting quickness on the shore, and cranes that move and look as living works of art.

Tri-State Bird Rescue is leading the effort to save, clean, and relocate the Gulf coast's avian wildlife. So click, look around, and see if you can spare a tuppence for the birds.

[EDIT] This was actually supposed to go on my blog, but if it's alright with the mods, I think it'd be nice to leave up for the interested.

Harvest of Souls, Chapter Seven

2010-06-03T19:42:00.000-07:00

Say Ye Not, A Confederacy

As first light shone across the Shenandoah Mountains, Marine Two Foxtrot flew in low over a nondescript complex of low, rectangular buildings, roads, and parking lots set in a clearing surrounded by a forest of tightly-clumped deciduous trees. Richard held Beth’s hand tight with one hand, a telephone with the other.

“You got Britain, France, and China? Good, see what you can do about the other nuclear powers. Let them know I’ll be down in a few minutes. Then I’ll need a meeting with the Joint Chiefs, and a sitrep from FEMA. The leadership of the House and Senate should be in on that,” he said, then was silent as the other person spoke.

“…The ceremony can wait a bit…at least until we’ve got things in motion,” Deming said heavily. Those who called Huckabee and Deming a ‘team of rivals’ engaged in massive understatement. As hard-fought as the primaries had been, Richard never wanted to get the Presidency this way, at the expense of the man’s life, and those of his whole family. The ceremony can wait. To raise his hand and take the President’s oath would be to pronounce President Huckabee dead…and Emilie, James, Aisha, and Ricky Junior, and everyone else who was among the vanished. “Thank you. We’re setting down now.”

“Welcome to Mount Weather, Mr. Vice President,” a Marine guard said as Richard, Beth, and the Football were whisked into the elevator he was protecting. Deming gave him a nod, as that was all he had time for. Moments later, the doors whisked open on a scene of barely-controlled chaos. FEMA agents talked on phones, typed at computers, or hurried to and fro with printouts and manila folders. Knots of Senators and Representatives stood huddled in their pajamas with their families, all pointedly bereft of younger children. Some of them simply stared blankly, like poleaxed steers. Others, spotting Richard and his entourage, hurried over and started talking all at once.

“Mr. Vice President—“

“What’s happened?”

“Where are our chil…

“…alien attack?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll meet as soon as we can,” Richard said. “First I’ve got to talk to the other nuclear powers,” he said with a glance toward the Football. That silenced them.

“Godspeed, Mr. Vice President,” the chairman of the Ways and Means committee said as they parted to let him pass. A harried staffer was waiting for him.

“The teleconference is set up, Mr. Vice President,”

“You got them all?”

“Except for North Korea and Pakistan.” Deming suppressed a groan of irritation. “The North Koreans refused to talk, and we weren’t even able to get someone on the phone in Pakistan. Their ‘net servers are down too.”

“Their leadership disappeared?”

“We don’t know that, sir. Their government was precarious to begin with, and now…”

Richard exchanged a pained look with Beth. Both knew that reminders of the catastrophe, of their missing children, would not stop coming. Beth gave him a quick, fierce embrace as they reached the conference room door.

“I’ll see what I can do to help out here,” she said, then released him and turned back toward the members of Congress. Richard gave her a wan smile, then went inside. The conference room was sleek and futuristic, Japanese-style black lacquer and accents of white marble. He sat down in front of a wrap-around green screen and nodded to the technician.

“Um…sir?” the technician said, glancing at his “outfit.” Someone at the National Military Command Center had given him an Army T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

“Just do it, I’m not going to keep them waiting while I get on a suit and tie.” Though he’d managed to talk briefly with the Russian President over the Hotline before getting America’s missile-defense radars back online, Richard wanted to speak with the rest of the nuclear club as soon as possible. Especially the ones engaged in miniature Cold War standoffs: India and Pakistan, Israel and Iran. The joker in the deck, North Korea, apparently wasn’t interested in talking. Not with the U.S. anyway.

The other places at the table were taken by tall parabolic high-definition screens. They flickered to life, conjuring 3-D images of the other nuclear-armed world leaders. They all looked as haggard as he did, but due to placement in more fortuitous time zones, they were all dressed “properly.”

“Thank you all for being here. In case you haven’t heard already, President Huckabee is among the missing. I will be assuming Presidential duties until he can be recovered, or we discover for sure that he can’t. We all have to face the biggest national emergency in the history of our countries right now, so I don’t want to take a lot of your time--”

“My condolences for your country’s losses, Mr. Vice President,” the Russian President said. “From what we have learned so far, your country has been hardest hit among the developed nations. Under the circumstances, perhaps the United States should not be the nation coordinating our response to the crisis.”

“I’m not jockeying for position here, Dmitry Adreievich. No nation on Earth is responsible for what’s happened. The primate house behavior has got to stop. We have a common enemy now.” What if Mike was right? What if our ‘enemy’ is God? Richard thought, but he pushed it aside. First, keep people from nuking each other. Then find out if this is the Rapture or not. “If any of you knows the best way to respond to this crisis, I’ll be happy to go along. But right now—“

“We must neutralize Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal immediately!” President Patil of India said. “If militants should seize power—“

“Do you intend to continue President Huckabee’s policy on Iran’s arsenal?” the Israeli Prime minister asked. “We will not accept an Iranian Bomb!”

“We have two Bombs. You have two hundred, or more! Which you have been lying about for decades!” the Iranian President snapped.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Richard shouted. “There’s two things we’ve all got to agree to do right now. One: let’s not make things worse than they already are. No mushroom clouds blooming over anybody’s cities. No preemptive strikes. Two: I want my kids back. I want your kids back. Some little tribe of Bushmen living in the Kalahari desert? I want their kids back! All of our grand strategies, our force deployments, our weapons procurement, our alliances, our foreign policies—all of that has to be focused on our kids and grandkids now. What else is there?”

“Do you really think we can get them back?” the British Prime Minister said.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re up against, but I am convinced that our only chance is cooperation. It’s going to take all we can do just to maintain a semblance of order.” Dmitry’s eyes narrowed.

“You know more than you are telling us, Richard. I see it in your eyes.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘knowing,’” Richard said with a sigh. “Yesterday, this would have been crazy talk. The Rapture. Some of you may remember my debate with President Huckabee on foreign policy, when I grilled him about his belief in the Rapture. Well…this looks an awful lot like what President Huckabee and others like him have been talking about for years.”

“You mean, God taking all of the Christians away?” Dmitry replied. “I assure you, the churches in my country do not lack for attendance.”

“And what does that have to do with the children?” the French President asked.

“Well, the belief is that God would take the children too, ones younger than about 12 or so, what they call the ‘age of accountability.’ And as for the Christians in your countries, I think the idea is that God was only coming for the Christians who believe the same things as the Rapture Ready types. I’m not endorsing this idea, for all I know it’s aliens faking a Rapture the way the Spanish Conquistadors pulled one over on the Aztecs by playing the part of Quetzalcoatl.”

“But you think it could be true?” Dmitry asked. Richard gave him a lopsided grin. Now he was in the hot seat fielding questions about the Rapture.

“I’m not going to rule it out just because I hope it’s not. But I’m not going to just jump to it as a conclusion either. Whatever this is—“ Richard was interrupted by a military attaché entering the conference room and striding briskly over to him. He leaned over to whisper in Richard’s ear. Deming paled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been informed that North Korea has started shelling Seoul and our defenses along the Demilitarized Zone with long range artillery. We can’t afford this distraction. Whoever or whatever took our kids could be just getting started. I’m going to be putting my country’s strategic forces on alert, but I want to do it in cooperation with the rest of you. Li, Dmitry, do you think you can get the North Koreans to stop?”

“Kim Jong-Il must be doing this because he feels he needs an external conflict to stabilize his regime. He may be too desperate to back down,” Li replied.

“Then I think the best approach is going to be a unified response from all of us with military forces in the theater, and we may need to include the Japanese. If they can’t be talked down, they’ll have to be taken down, as quickly as possible. Do we have an alliance?”

“What are your intentions for the Korean peninsula afterward? Unification with the South?” Li asked.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Maybe political unification with some kind of joint occupation of the North like we did with Germany after World War II. This is not about expanding American hegemony. This is about standing together to defend our world and keep human civilization alive. Do we have an alliance?”

“The anti-missile systems you have deployed against us, would you agree to relocate them?” Dmitry said. Upon taking office, President Huckabee had re-instituted the Bush policy of ringing Russia with forward-deployed anti-missile systems in allied nations in Eastern Europe, Central Asia and East Asia. The weapons had increased tensions with the Russians and led them to closer ties with China and Iran.

“In principle, yes. I can’t talk specifics until we can develop some kind of planetary defense strategy. I don’t know if those systems are going to be much use against whoever took our children, but that’s their purpose now. Get your military planners working on a way to coordinate your strategic defenses with ours and I’ll do the same. Do we have an alliance?”

“What if you become convinced that it is your Protestant God who has done this?” Dmitry asked.

“The God I believe in is the one who sent His Son to Earth with a choir of angels singing ‘Peace on Earth, good will towards men.’ My Jesus is the one who gave the Sermon on the Mount, and who went to the Cross instead of summoning twelve legions of angels to lay waste to the world. I don’t know of any place in the Bible where it says God will kidnap all of our children. But if I’m wrong, and it really is God, the creator of hundreds of billions of galaxies that did this to us, then honestly, what can we do?

“All I know is…humanity is under attack by something much more powerful than we are. If we can’t…at least try to stand together, to be on the same side for once, even now…to just try and keep our whole world from falling into war and chaos…what does that say about us? What does that say about us?”

There was silence for a moment as the other leaders looked each other in the eye.

“I cannot speak for others…but with Russia you have your alliance, Mr. Vice President.”

“We have an alliance,” Li Peng said.

One by one the leaders announced their solidarity, until it came around to the newest, and apart from North Korea, the least welcome member of the nuclear club.

“I…will need to speak with the Supreme Leader…but if I can bring him an assurance of security for our nation…”

“If you’re talking about the threat of a unilateral attack by Israel, I won’t stand for that,” Richard said, casting a warning glance toward the Israeli Prime Minister. “Nor will American forces be launching any attacks against Iran as long as we and our allies are not attacked by Iran. The only ‘assurance of security’ I can offer you is to have the United States and Israel as allies rather than as enemies.” He cast another hard glance at the Israeli Prime Minister, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable. “And yes, that means working out a Middle East peace that no one will like but everyone can accept.

“Making this work isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to be the most difficult thing humanity has ever attempted. And we have no assurance of success, not against something that can just come down and take over a billion children…right out of our arms. Getting through this is going to require the utmost from each and every one of us…the very best that humanity is capable of, in every area of endeavor. This is when we find out who we really are, as human beings.”

Worrying Implications

2010-04-21T19:12:00.000-07:00

In various labs, meeting rooms and offices scientists met, trying to understand the 'Event' as it had been called. Theories were offered, some found more plausible than others but there was still a great gnawing sense of unease, of fear. The unknown can be something fascinating but it can be terrifying too, especially when that unknown apparently destroyed your children, your friends and neighbors. Governments worldwide were trying to understand what happened and if it was going to happen again. Information was sent around, groups pored over data, many of them quietly both praising and scolding Carpathia.

On the one hand, he had addressed the situation and had managed to, amazingly, calm multitudes of people and get them to feel more optimistic which was honestly an impressive feat. But then he claimed that the reason this occurred was due to some kind of 'electromagnetic field' which was utter nonsense. Unfortunately it had grabbed the attention of people desperate for any kind of idea of what was happening which meant that they were going to have to fight the conventional wisdom when they got a better idea of what happened. But what made it worse...well that was announced by one flustered woman

"This is utter CRAP!" she got up, staring at all the data in disgust, pacing, taking a few deep breaths before recovering. "It's crap, as it is everything we knew went out the window with the event. Thermodynamics was violated in at least three ways, not to mention all kinds of things we thought we understood about biology being apparently disproven. The rules basically just got rewritten, we're trying to play chess using the rules for checkers." She looked around the table, some of them looked surprised at the outburst but more than a few of them nodded or gave her a look of agreement. There were webcams recording what she had said and she noticed on her laptop messages were starting to accumulate, some agreed with her, some pleaded with her to calm down, and some asked flatly what they were to do. She sighed, apparently she still had their attention so she continued,

"Right now we can't even be sure what caused this, but there are a few things we do know. Carpathias electromagnetic field explanation is holding for now but we need to come up with an actual answer. The other theories out there claim either space aliens or an angry god. The news has shown dozens, hundreds of people protesting at the Vatican and other religious sites. The US government is dealing with dozens of inquiries about Roswell and other various UFO phenomena. Right now we have a duty to figure out what happened but we don't even know where to start. We have to do something soon, we have a responsibility to find out the truth and make sure people know."

She didn't mention the last part, the elephant in the room that had been wandering around since the first few days after the Event. The elephant had gotten larger when scientists working in weapons research and other military endeavors were joining in on the project and trying to offer any help. People had thought about what occurred at Israel during the joint attack. They had managed to throw the attack back, destroy harmlessly every nuclear weapon, and even managed to somehow be able to salvage fuel from all the vehicles. People had called it a miracle but there were some who also remembered Chaim Rosenwigs formula. Israel had lately been advancing incredibly in technical development and while Israel had claimed confusion with the rest of the world few people had accepted it. They couldn't imagine that something like that could happen without a cause. The event had a similar mystery quality to it and the thought flashed, however fleeting, that they might be responsible for this. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps it was purposeful, but whatever happened...they didn't want to say aloud what they wondered, mostly for fear that they might all frantically grab onto it or that it would reach the world before they could be sure and cause another round of riots and panics.

She sat again and started going over the papers again as theories flew hoping for progress, all the while the elephant in the room grew ever larger.

Display of Power

2010-04-06T11:58:00.000-07:00

Posted for the authors Huitzil and Inklesspen

Nicolae, having made his way around most of the table, now approached Harper, asking him to stand. After shaking his hand, as he'd done with all the others, he said, "Mr. Harper, you shall be introduced as the ambassador of the Great States of North America, stretching from the North Pole to the Panama Canal. I welcome you to the team and confer upon you all the rights and privileges that go with your new station. May you display to me and to those in your charge the consistency and wisdom that have brought you to this position."

Buck could hardly believe his ears. Just like that, Nicolae had abolished the United States, the same as he'd done for Ireland, Ghana, South Korea, New Zealand, Columbia, and even his home nation of Romania. What's more, Harper seemed to be the only one of these new "ambassadors" who'd even been a head of state!

Carpathia moved on to Buck, but this time he seemed to hesitate. Without waiting to be asked, Buck stood to his feed, holding his notebook and pen awkwardly at his side. The smile on his face felt transparently false as he shook hands with the man. "Mr. Williams, my friend," said Carpathia, "I thank you for coming here today, and I hope you'll fulfill your journalistic responsibilities here as well as you have in the past. This is a truly momentous occasion." As everyone applauded, Buck didn't know what to do or how to respond. He'd come here wanting to find out what Carpathia was doing, for his Global Weekly article, but now that seemed to be exactly what Carpathia wanted of him. What did God want? He realized he didn't have any idea. Still confused, he sank into his chair.

Thankfully, Nicolae had moved on. He gave a perfunctory thank-you to Stonegal for all the help et cetera et cetera and made his way back to where he'd started, near the door. He turned to the security guard posted there. "Mr. Otterness, would you please hand me your sidearm?" The guard didn't seem to find anything unusual in his request, but simply unsnapped his holster and handed the gun over.

Nicolae raised the .38 and cocked it. "Mr. Stonegal, I will not be needing your help any more." He fired the gun into the back of Stonegal's head. For a moment after the blast, there was a stunned silence, everyone in the room trying to comprehend what they had just seen. Then the screaming began; not just Hattie, but most of the people in the room. Another shot rang out, and Todd-Cothran, the first of the two men to have been named ambassador of Britain, fell to the floor. "I will have silence," the man with the gun said, not loudly. The screaming stopped. Buck hadn't even been able to hear him over the noise, but he knew just what Nicolae had said, as apparently had everyone else.

"I have made you rulers of the ten federations of Earth, but you will remember that I am in control here," he said. "This is my display of power. You may go outside and tell anyone you want what you just saw. I will not try to stop you. Shout it from the rooftops, if you like. You just saw the Secretary-General of the United Nations murder a man in cold blood for no reason, and there is nothing you can do about it. This world is mine."

Fatherly advice

2010-04-03T18:26:00.000-07:00

How Rayford might have handled the Chloe-Buck thing if he was a human being.

"Hi Rayford," Buck Williams said. "May I speak to Chloe?"

"Yes, just-" He broke off: Chloe was frantically shaking her head and gesturing to put the phone down. "No, Buck. I don't think she wants to talk to you right now."

"Why not?" His tone was all outraged innocence, with just a hint of brattish whining. "Look, Rayford, I want to sort this out with her. But she won't even tell me what the matter is - she just drops these little hints and expects me just to intuit what she means. How am I supposed to work it out if she won't even speak to me?"

Rayford sighed. He knew young people had different moral codes to their elders, but even the brashest teenager would have been able to work out why Chloe was angry with Buck. There was no way a seasoned journalist could be so oblivious. "I don't think it's all that hard to work out."

"You mean you know? What has she told you?" The eagerness in his voice almost made Rayford doubt his previous assessment. It didn't sound feigned: maybe Buck really was desperate to know what he'd done wrong.

But Rayford wasn't about to explain it to him. The conversation would be far more messy than he had the stomach for, especially with Chloe still within earshot. "No, I'm not going to get involved. You respect Chloe, and leave her alone unless she decides she wants to speak to you. And just ... just grow up." He put the phone down before Buck could protest.

Chloe took a tentative step towards him. She looked exhausted, but also grateful. "Thanks for dealing with him."

Rayford shook his head. "I bought you some time, that's all. Eventually, you're going to need to deal with him yourself."

"I don't ever want to see him again."

"I know, but that's going to be hard, isn't it? Are you going to stop going to New Hope? Force him to stop going?"

Her composure broke. She sat down on the bottom step and let the tears start falling again. Rayford sat beside her, stroking her shoulder and feeling utterly useless.

"What would you do, Dad? If you were me?"

For the millionth time, Rayford wished Irene was there. She would have had the perfect advice for a time like this: something that would make Chloe feel better and help her find the best way forwards on her own. He'd never realised how much she did to keep the family going until she was no longer there to do it.

"I don't know, honey. But maybe ... you need to tell him how you feel, in words even he can't misunderstand. If he's got any decency at all, he'll have to..."

"That's it, isn't it? What can he do now? I'm sure he didn't mean to lead me on like this, but now the damage is done."

"It's not up to you to bear the worst of the damage, though," Rayford said firmly. "None of this is your fault. He needs to start putting things right. And ... well, from what he said just now, I don't think he's capable of doing that without you spelling it out for him."

L.I.P.R.E.

2010-03-20T17:31:00.000-07:00

L.I.P.R.E
~c2t2

Shira was watching crops grow.

It sounded like some kind of Zen exercise in patience, but she really was watching her plants grow. The world had gotten more than a little surreal Post-Formula in the newly expanded Israel.

Today, her morning had started like any other...

Shira groaned and covered her head with her pillow when the siren in the center of town began to blare at 4:00 AM. Their neighborhood was assigned to their Quarter's corn sector today, one of the furthest from town. At least corn was better than rice. ANYTHING was better than rice. (Mama argued potatoes were worse, but Shira and here friends unanimously hated rice the most.)

As she stumbled out of her room and pulled on her clothing (no point in taking a shower yet) Mama, huge heavy bags under her eyes, had breakfast nearly finished. They got little enough sleep the way it was, Mama was killing herself trying to keep the rest of the family going. Father wasn't required to do Crop duty, since he had been drafted into Transport, and was stuck on a ship for the next month until he rotated back to being a Driver. Shira wondered if he was happy to get away, Mama had gotten so pale Post-Formula...

At least she was holding up so far. Yosef's mother had recently been hospitalized, but thankfully the paperwork went through for her before she succumbed to exhaustion, unlike poor Mrs. Cohen. Maya hadn't been the same since it had happened to her mother.

Shira staggered outside just as the Drivers pulled up and the townspeople piled into the trucks like so many sardines. Most of them dropped back off to sleep. Mama and David - Shira's kid brother - curled up in a space meant for one person, snoring within seconds.

Over an hour later the trucks finally stopped, and Shira jerked upright from where she'd been dozing. As everyone piled out Shira was glad to see that the seed truck had already arrived. She would have to work fast, she and Mama both had to plant twice the assigned amount. Many of the other townspeople did as well. They were a poor rural town, and couldn't afford to pay anyone more desperate than they were to do their 'civic duty' for them. The extra money from their patrons helped, though, even if it meant twice the work. That was why David had come. He was below the Age of Assignment, but had come to help Shira and Mama so they could make it to their real jobs on time.

***

After the trucks had dropped everybody back at the Drivers' stop, Shira walked home and took a quick shower before dressing and going to work. Eight hours later it was late afternoon and shira found herself nodding off at her job as a barista in the unusually quiet shop. The coffeeshops were one of the few establishments whose business had actually boomed among the lower classes Post-Formula. Business from the upper castes remained about the same, of course, not that there were many in their little town.

The moment the sun began to set Shira closed up shop, along with nearly every other business in nown, and trudged to the Drivers' stop. In less than ten minutes the Drivers arrived and the able-bodied in their town once again piled into the extremely uncomfortable trucks, and then fell asleep anyway.

David had been left home with his schoolwork. Harvest every evening went much faster than planting in the morning, at least when they were working in the corn sector. Shira, along with pretty much every other non-rich person in Israel, prayed that next week their assignment would be some kind of fruit, where the groves were already planted and the trees mature, so they only needed to pick the ripe fruit every day after sunset.

The trucks arrived alongside a few massive trailers that would haul away the day's crop. Sunset was still twenty minutes away, so the townsfolk got a short reprieve and stretched out for another nap. Shira sat down and watched the crops grow.

They were exhausted. Theywere virtually enslaved by Israel. But maybe they were lucky.

Their country paid its people barely a pittance for their work on the former-desert farms and on transport, and Israel's citizens had become cheaper than machines. This made vegetables, grains, fruit, and nuts obscenely cheap to export, so Israel became equally obscenely rich, and had bankrupted virtually every farmer in every other country in the world.

If a few people died of exhaustion before their medical/disability paperwork went through... well, that was just collateral.

A Light in the Darkness

2010-01-27T15:06:00.000-08:00

Elior walked across the tarmac of New Babylon's airport, wherever he looked there was someone writhing in agony. The screams of the victims blended together into a sort of hellish white noise. He couldn't stop to help them, not yet. Like all angels, Elior was a messenger. He was here to deliver a message.

He made note of the position of every person. He might not have time to save them all, but a little reconnaissance beforehand could help him to save more of them. God hadn't actually told him to save them. He'd said nothing of the sort. But God hadn't told him not to save them either. That left the decision on what to do in Elior's hands and Elior already had his answer.

To better understand the situation Elior dropped his supernatural defenses and experienced what a mortal would. He cried out and raised his defenses. The pain had defied description. Bad enough that he hadn't even noticed falling to the tarmac. He picked himself up and continued on his way.

His goal came into view. A man walked away from her, that was odd. It was clear the man could see, but who else would be able to see in this place? Elior knew it didn't matter, if the man were important God would have mentioned him. Still, it made him curious.

Elior pushed it out of his mind, and approached the woman. He knelt beside her, "Emma, God sent me to tell you that he has heard your prayer." He placed his hands on her. She stopped writhing. "It is never too late to come to God. But neither is it free. If you swear to forsake evil and actively do good, God will take you into his embrace."

She swore it without pausing to think, but Elior knew she was sincere. For now that was enough. Time would tell whether she would live up to it. He granted her the ability to see in darkness and helped her to her feet. "Do you have any questions?"

Emma thought for a moment. "Why is this happening?"

Elior looked around, shook his head, and said, "I don't know. I'm just a messenger. I would stop it if I could, but God won't let me interfere in the Antichrist's plan."

"Nicolae?"

"No, not Nicolae. He would make a piss poor Antichrist. Nicolae is like an angry child who has no real goal in life other than to throw tantrums whenever he notices he doesn't rule the world. The real Antichrist is going to try to pass himself off as Jesus. Can you imagine what would happen if Nicolae declared himself Jesus? There'd be so many questions he couldn't answer, chief among them being who the Antichrist was.

"The idea of an Antichrist is so prevalent in popular culture that anyone claiming to be Christ needs to be able to point to someone as an Antichrist. Who could Nicolae point to? Tsion Ben-Judah?" He paused to consider that. "Actually that's not far off.

"Anyway, Nicolae is not the Antichrist. He is a patsy, and an idiot to boot. If the real Antichrist were as stupid as Nicolae my work would be much easier. I wish the real Antichrist was as ineffectual as Nicolae. The real Antichrist is working with the real Lucifer who has, for centuries, been setting this up. They did this," Elior gestured to the ubiquitous darkness and suffering. "But God let them, and I don't pretend to understand why."

Emma asked, "What does God want me to do?"

God hadn't told Elior. His instructions had ended at answering questions, with no indication of what answers he wanted Elior to give. There was always the standard answer, "Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, take in strangers, clothe the naked, visit the sick, and come to those in prison." He paused a moment, "Speaking of which, I have something for you," he handed her bread and a water bottle.

Emma snatched them and immediately bit into the bread, then stopped, pulled the bread away from her mouth, and looked at the starving masses around her. Elior knew what she was thinking. "Go ahead. There's enough to go around." It was the fastest he had ever seen someone eat, and he worried she might drown on her water. She survived, coming out somewhat better fed and watered and completely unscathed. "I'm planning on helping them, if that sounds like something you'd like to do, I could use the help."

Emma nodded.

"Now I might not be allowed to make this all go away, but I can preform some miracles." He handed Emma a loaf of bread. "That will feed as many people as needed. You don't happen to have any fish ... no, you wouldn't. Nevermind. You'll find the bottle is full again, and will remain that way. Go around feed people, comfort them, give them a drink, see if any of them will come to God, but most of all get them moving. The overall goal is to get all of these people moving as far as they can as fast as they can that way." Elior pointed. "If any of them will accept God call out my name. I'll see about doing for them what I did for you."

Many of them were quite willing to accept God.

Later:

Elior watched as the woman's soul left her body. She was clearly shocked, death by gas grenade would do that to a person. She also exhibited the kind of serenity that only people who had been relieved from great pain ever experienced. "Hello, Krystall. My name is Elior."

When she faced him she filled with fear. "No, no. I'm not here to hurt you. You helped strangers. Even when you thought there was no benefit for yourself. It cost you your life, but it earned you something far more important. I'm here to take you to Heaven, to a place prepared for ones such as you before time itself began."

Something is Wrong Here

2010-01-21T09:33:00.000-08:00

"Rayford," Jesus said.

"Yes, Lord," Rayford responded.

"When you see My throne, join those on My left, your right."

Rayford didn't notice he had stopped in his tracks. He didn't notice that others were moving passed him. All he noticed was that something was wrong. He had been waiting for this moment for seven years. He had studied it for just as long. He was supposed to be on Jesus' right. He was sure of it. But he was just as sure of what Jesus had said.

Something was wrong.

Perhaps it was a test of faith. If it was Rayford would pass. He would do whatever Jesus commanded of him. "Yes, Lord," Rayford said. He made his way rightwards.

Big Sky-Man told him to move left, so Jacob moved to his left. He considered disobeying for the sake of disobeying, but didn't see the point. Big Sky-Man could simply teleport Jacob there if he didn't move, and over there didn't look any worse than where he was standing. He felt like stretching his legs anyway and didn't see any gain in pissing of Big Sky-Man. Jacob moved to his left, Big Sky-Man's right.

Jacob had never studied theology and never set foot in a church, he had no idea the significance of being on the right or the left. In fact the only thing this right-left thing brought to mind was an episode of the original series of Star Trek. It was a heavy handed commentary on race with a memorable scene in which one black on one side white on the other side alien shouted that he was superior to another similarly colored alien because the other one was, "white on the right side. All of his people are white on the right side!"

Jacob smiled at his faded memory of the scene as he made his leftwards through the crowd.

Below them the vast heavenly hosts were assembled. A great raised platform stood under the assorted saints and angels. On the platform Jesus sat on a throne and five angels stood. The three angels of mercy were behind Jesus, Michael and Gabriel stood to either side.

One of the angels stepped forward and made a speech. Jacob thought its wings were pretty.

"Jacob, " Big Sky-Man said, "come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me. "

"I've never seen you before," Jacob said.

"Assuredly, I say to you, Jacob," Big Sky-Man said, "inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren," Jacob's mind was flooded with memories. Volunteering at a soup kitchen, all the times he gave up his water ration because others needed it more, strangers who would one day be friends camped out in sleeping bags in his living room after an earthquake had toppled so many other houses.

He remembered on the night of the vanishings meeting a teenaged girl who had lost everything -literally everything- standing in the street staring at her burning house wearing nothing but a blanket, the only thing he'd had to give was the clothing he'd been wearing. It wasn't complete charity though, she'd given him the blanket in trade. There were also instances of donating clothing to charities, but they were much less notable.

Most of all he remembered the hospital. The damned hospital. He hated it. The smell, the knowledge that so many of those he was visiting would die, the horror of seeing a child, always under seven years old, being wheeled through the halls with bits of them missing. Everything about it, he had hated. But his friend had been right, there was a need. By the time there were children in need of a children's hospital all of the children's hospitals had been abandoned or repurposed. He couldn't build, he had no medical training, he had no money. He watched as others worked to make it operational, but couldn't help with that. Once it was he watched as others did the work of healing, but couldn't help with that. All he could do was go from room to room and talk to the children. So he that was what he did.

Jacob didn't actually have any memories of coming to anyone in prison.

"you did it to Me." Big Sky-Man finished.

Jacob said, "Oh."

With anger and yet sadness, Jesus said, "Rayford, depart from Me, you cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels: for I was hungry and you gave Me no food; I was thirsty and you gave Me no drink; I was a stranger and you did not take Me in, naked and you did not clothe Me, sick and in prison and you did not visit Me."

The words didn't really parse properly in Rayford's brain. When he said, "What! When?" it was more of a reflex than an actual question.

Jesus said, "Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did not do it to one of the least of these,” Ray's mind filled with images, a woman on the ground next to an empty stroller that he drove passed on his way home, homeless people he had ignored on his way to various places, every person who's suffering he had left unattended because he was too busy spying on Nicolae. The images were too many to number. "you did not do it to Me. You will go away into everlasting punishment, but the righteous into eternal life," Jesus finished.

This wasn't right. Rayford wasn't a goat. He was a sheep. He knew it. Bruce and Tsion had both told him so. Something was wrong here. "No. No! NO!"

Somewhere, to his right, Rayford heard someone yell, "But I said the prayer!"

A woman near Jacob asked, "Is this a trick?"

Jacob didn't understand how she could even think that if her experience had been anything like his own. He knew, somehow, exactly what this was. He silently asked Big Sky-Man if he could tell her. Big Sky-Man said he could. He approached her, looked her in the eyes and said, "No. It's not a trick. This what we've earned. At long last our suffering is at an end."

"But I took the mark. I have the mark of the beast."

Jacob looked at her empty forehead. He had to lean slightly to see her hand. "Not anymore. I don't think marks matter anyway. It's what you do that matters."

Jacob looked passed her, the earth cracked under the people on Big Sky-Man's left. The crack expanded, lengthening and widening until it it swallowed all of them, then it shut itself. "And kerplunk. He doesn't screw around." Jacob thought for a moment, "I hope He doesn't just leave them there. I can't believe that they're all irredeemable."

-
--
-

Notes:

I originally misread "Rayford knew instinctively that every living person on earth was gathered in that valley." as "Rayford knew instinctively that every living thing on earth was gathered in that valley."

As such it made sense to include:

The onlookers instinctively knew that every living thing on earth was present. Rayford tried to determine how many human beings had survived this long. Jacob wondered where his dog and cat were. And his spider plant.

-

It took most of the morning for everyone to get where they were supposed to be. Jacob had located his pets and his plant, but the cat had gotten bored and moved on.

Unfortunately that doesn't make much sense when looking at what the text really says.

Also, Krystall, Nicolae's secretary, was originally supposed to be the one Jacob talks to, but apparently she died before the series reached it's conclusion. As a result I had to drop the original last line:

"I don't know," Krystall said, and she told him of a man who'd once tormented her when she was immersed in total darkness.

Variations on a Bitter Theme

2010-01-21T09:01:00.000-08:00

The actual text of Earl and Rayford's conversation in Tribulation Force:

"You hit me with all that church and Rapture stuff, and I was polite, wasn't I?"

"A little too polite."

"But I took it as a friend, just like you listen to me when I brag about my kids, right?"

"I wasn't bragging about anything."

"No, but you were excited about it. You found something that gave you comfort and helped explain your losses, and I say, great, whatever makes your boat float. You started pressing me about coming to church and reading my Bible and all that, and I told you, kindly I hope, that I considered that personal and that I would appreciate it if you'd lay off."

"And I did. Though I still pray for you."

"Well, hey, thanks."

Variant 1:

"You hit me with all that church and Rapture stuff, and I was polite, wasn't I?"

"A little too polite."

"But I took it as a friend, just like you listen to me when I brag about my kids- Sorry. Oh my god, I am so sorry. I just- I just didn't think … I - I'm … Jesus. I'm so, so sorry."

Rayford didn't say anything. It wasn't Earl's fault. People slipped up. There were so many things you couldn't say anymore. So many things that would strike the wrong nerve. You had to constantly think before you spoke to make sure you didn't mention children. Everyone slipped up sometimes.

Rayford himself had said some very stupid things. He still felt bad about what he'd asked that kindergarten teacher.

It was easy to forgive Earl. What wasn't easy was dealing with thoughts about his son. He didn't think about Raymie that much. He couldn't. If he let himself do it he'd be unable to function. Even now, at nothing more than the word "kids" he could feel pressure building behind his eyes as tears prepared to push out. He could feel the deepest sadness he had ever known rising up inside.

For the thousandth time he reminded himself that his son wasn't dead. But as with every time before, the distinction seemed academic. Not a comfort so much as a technicality. His son was in Heaven just as any dead child would be. He tried to tell himself that was a good thing, that he should be happy that his son was in paradise, but it had never made the loss any easier before and this time was no different.

Raymie was in Heaven, Rayford was sure of it, but that still meant he was not here. Not on earth with Rayford. That hurt. It was a pain that he couldn't rationalize away. A piece of his soul had been torn out, and the fact that that piece was in Heaven didn't make the gaping hole it left behind any more bearable.

Rayford forced himself to speak, and said what he wanted to believe, "You don't have to apologize. I know where my son is. He's in Heaven. That's cause for celebration not-" He couldn't make himself believe it. In the abstract he knew it to be true. But in the practice the first tear slid down his face, soon to be followed by many more.

Variant 2:

"You hit me with all that church and Rapture stuff, and I was polite, wasn't I?"

"A little too polite."

"But I took it as a friend, just like you listen to me when I brag about..." Earl blinked several times. Then hung his head. He sniffed. "I'm – I'm all right. Just give me-" his breathing became ragged. "I can...” The first sob came. "Oh, god ... my kids." Tears ran freely down Earl's face.

Rayford wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to tell Earl there was nothing to be sad about, that his children were in Heaven with God, but he'd tried that before. Earl didn't want to hear it. He'd made that clear.

These were inspired by Raka's version:

"But I took it as a friend, just like you listen to me when I brag about my kids, right?"

"I mean, bragged. Past tense. Back when I had kids. A few weeks ago. Man, the things that slip your mind, y'know? Ha, I'd probably forget my head if it weren't for the fact that everything that made my life worth living was snatched away in one cruel instant and here I am engaging in this ludicrous pantomime of pseudo-human interaction with you and what were we talking about? You gonna finish those fries?"

(I know, I know; his kids might very well be past the magical cut-off date. Still. Casual references to children should be about as socially acceptable as taking your pants off in a crowded elevator at this point.)

The Grass is Always Greener (Piggy edition)

2009-11-18T17:53:00.000-08:00

Because this story involves profanity, cruelty to animals, and other upsetting content, it's behind a jump-cut. Proceed at your own risk.

The custodian limped out of the room, leaning heavily on the arm of an office worker. A few stray drops of blood marred the floor where the stuffed-shirt-and-tie failed to apply enough pressure, but otherwise, Nicolae’s office was in pristine condition.

Turning away from the irrelevant parties, Nicolae drew his gaze to his latest assistant.

“What’s next on the agenda?”

“Well, there’s the matter of-“

“I know! Tell me about Piggy!” Nicolae burst in. He could feel a strange giddiness coming over him. It happened sometimes, usually in the middle of a long week. He couldn’t sleep any more, but he tried to at least find an hour here or there for prayer and contemplation. It had been more than two weeks since he’d last taken time for any stillness, and his moods bounced from murderous villain to childlike glee and wonder.

“Um… the pig you requested. Yes, let me just call Mr. Hassis, and get him on the video link.”

Nicolae grinned happily, not just for the updates about the pig. Frank Hassis was one of the little touches that he took pride in. He’d found Frank by asking the right questions among the professional horse racing circuit. Well, Nicolae hadn’t been asking the questions, but had directed the overall recruitment search.

The assistant hovered nervously near Nicolae, and flinched visibly when Nicolae broke from his revere.

“Sir, if you’ll sit at the desk, the webcam and mike are live, and Mr. Hassis is standing by.”

“Frank! How’s that big ol’ hog coming along? The big day’s just around the corner, and I need something special for what I’ve got planned!” Nicolae was looking forward to the event in question; he had a lot of things to do, but he really wanted to get this one just right.

Frank Hassis was perpetually unshaven with dark circles under his eyes. This had become more pronounced since working for his new employer. Frank had never looked like a trustworthy person; no one ever invited him over for a friendly poker game or asked him to join their bowling team.

“Well, per your instructions, we’ve been adding as much weight as we can. He’s been eating a mix of rendered animal protein and grains, and at the last weighing, we were just over a thousand pounds.”

“Show me! Do you have enough cable on the cam to show me a live feed?”

Wordlessly, the image on the computer blurred, then refocused on a large cage. Inside was a massive, grossly obese hog. Mucus ran from its nose down its face, pooling on the ground in front of it. The beast gave slow, infrequent wheezing breaths, each exhalation causing ripples through its fat. Its eyes were filmed over, and the creature seemed to stare into space, unaware of its surroundings or even itself.

“Excellent!” Nicolae felt a giggle bubbling up inside. Big enough to ride, and filthy besides! Things were shaping up nicely. Earthquakes and plagues he had no control over, but this was something he could make perfect, down to the last detail.

“Actually, sir, that much weight is really unhealthy for this animal. It’s already got respiratory problems, joint pain, limited mobility…” Frank looked increasingly uneasy as the litany progressed.

“But can I ride it, as we discussed?” A pang of concern threatened to shift to white hot fury, the two emotions battling with Nicolae’s maniacal glee across his face. There were rules to be followed, and deadlines that had to be met. If this pig wouldn’t do, was there enough time to prepare another?

“…I think it can bear your weight for a short time, but you’ll need to be extremely careful. If it slips or staggers, odds are it will break a leg, and need to be put down. If you really intend to go through with your plan, I can start training it to accept a saddle and- “

Impatience surged up in Nicolae, and cold rationality dominated his tone and manner

“No saddle. No training. No breaking or conditioning. I don’t have time for riding lessons, and I don’t need to ride it very far or for very long.” He barely had time to ride the beast around the church. There was always too much to do, and no one seemed to understand that time was always at a premium.

“Sir, the only way I can get it to bear you without training would be to sedate the pig…” Frank wore caution openly on his face, and let his sentence trail off.

“Fine. Drug it.” The grinning child was back, relieved that events could continue on schedule.

“But according to what you’ve sent me, you want to direct the animal’s movement. If it’s sedated, the standard riding crop won’t be any good. The pig won’t be able to feel it, won't know when to move.” Frank’s tone had taken on the slow, cautious cadence of a man trying to explain a technical matter to a uneducated layperson.

“Well, then make a better lash. What did they call those tools used to flay skin? A scourge? Whip me up something out of barbed wire.” The part of Nicolae’s mind not awash in glee knew that Frank’s understanding of animals made this a reasonable expectation. He was once a veterinarian, and quite good at getting the results his employers wanted.

Frank started to speak, and then paused, thinking better of it. Nicolae grinned, folded his hands under his chin, and leaned towards the camera.

“And the physical condition of the pig for the event? I want full bladder, full bowels, full stomach. I don’t care if you have to cork the beast! I want it filthy; keep it in its cage, no washing and no cleaning for three days.”

Frank scratched at his stubble absently.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. This isn’t a healthy animal to begin with. Three days in confinement with its own filth will probably raise sores. And once we bring the pig out into the church, even a moderate amount of shock would cause it to void its bladder and bowels. You climbing on its back probably wouldn’t trigger anything, but once you start… flaying it to make it move, that’ll probably cause a pretty big mess.”

Nicolae giggled.

“Yes, I imagine it will.” That was rather the point, Nicolae thought. Pigshit on the church floor would add such strong sights and smells to a desecration. He idly wondered about the church’s acoustics and the sound of urine hitting tile. He was pleased that he’d be able to do this thing, and do it properly.

“Given its poor health, with you on its back, even minor exertion will probably lead it to vomit from the stress.” Frank had done some pretty questionable things before the Event. His veterinary license had been revoked years before, but people on the circuit either knew him or knew of him. He was a man got results, liked getting paid well, and never minded that he had to leave out side doors and be paid under the table.

“Yes, I rather expected that.” Hoped for it, really, but Nicolae couldn’t say that in front of Frank. It would not have had the desired effect. As it was, Frank had to look down, close his eyes, and take a deep breath before continuing in a concerned tone.

“The course you described to me would be on a tile floor. Given the various… fluids you’re introducing, even climbing stairs is probably going to cause a slip and a broken leg, maybe even a fall.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure I won’t be hurt!” Nicolae was sure he wasn’t going to die from having a pig fall on him. He was also sure that Frank’s concern had nothing to do with Nicolae. “I don’t intend to push the animal very quickly, and the only steps I expect it to manage are those in front of the church, after I’m done.”

Nicolae paused, savoring the image of that massive hog, bleeding and half-blind, dry heaving on the steps, reeking of its own filth, before continuing.

“I’ll have it jump down the steps as a final display. And then we’ll be done with it. I’ll need you there beforehand to uncrate the beast, drug it, and prep it, so you can stick around afterwards and put the beast down. Once I’m done with the hog, there will be no use for it, and no reason for it to keep living.”

The look on Frank’s face was one of the few joys Nicolae found in his job. Horror and shock battled beneath the surface, hatred for Nicolae and loathing for himself, and masking it all a terror of offending the most powerful man in the world. Frank was very near his breaking point. Frank might never find Christ, but he most certainly knew what it felt like to sell his soul.

“That’ll be all for now Frank. I’ll have my assistant fax you an itinerary once we have a solid date for the event. Ta-ta!” Nicolae flipped the laptop lid down, and walked over to the liquor cabinet. “I’d like to be alone now.”

Nicolae didn’t bother to turn around to confirm the emptiness of the room. He poured something expensive from one of the elaborate crystal decanters into one of the exquisite crystal glasses, barely paying attention at all. His mind was on the desecration. What a powerful image. The beast, flayed and bloody, it’s fluids marring the church’s pristine order. At the end, the animal would be squealing in pain on the steps. No one could witness such an act and be unmoved. No decent person could see such cruelty and believe Nicolae to be anything but a monster. The priests would be eyewitnesses, telling the tale to all who would hear, but if God demanded a desecration, their tale-telling would be too limited, missing both the scope of the act and lacking the reach. Fortunately, Nicolae had made sure that among the Government Staff in attendance would be at least one “secret” member of the Christian Resistance. Similarly, the travel arrangements would include multiple compact digital video recorders with lax security protocols; one would surely ‘go missing’ for a time afterwards.

A brief flutter of amusement brushed across Nicolae’s mind. Mass graves of Christians and laws outlawing religion wouldn’t bring a tenth of the converts to the Christian movement that five seconds of video showing animal cruelty would. Torturing a Christian brought few recruits, but torturing a pig would have them thundering to find a Bible.

Yes, the great desecration would be impressive. The pig would be a wretched, terrible sight, and Nicolae knew how it would suffer. To demand so much debasement, such pain and suffering, and ultimately death from such a creature, so barely aware of its surroundings, was a truly cruel act. To bring such a creature into the world, to shape it from birth to suffer and defile and eventually die required a heart of stone, a nature so callous to suffering as to be inhuman. The only thing to feel for such a beast had to be pity. Grinding his teeth, Nicolae turned his thoughts to Frank, and the gentle nudge he had given him at the very end. A thing that is no longer needed should be disposed of. Frank would be carrying a gun for putting down the beast, and Nicolae wanted to make sure there were two bullets. Once the pig was gone, what use did Nicolae have for a veterinarian?

Business attended to, Nicolae gave a deep sigh and drank from his glass, oblivious to the tears running down his face.

The Grass is Always Greener...

2009-11-18T16:32:00.000-08:00

This originally appeared in the comments of TF: Saving Hattie Durham under another title that has subsequently been used multiple times. The body of the story is behind a jump-cut.

The Grass is Always Greener... ("Why do you keep those guys around?" edition)

The intercom on his desk chirped briefly, and then Hattie Durham’s voice followed: “Mr. Williams has arrived.”

Nicolae barely heard the words enough to register them. He was looking out the window, over the New York skyline. He felt tired, weary, exhausted even. He considered ordering coffee, but the fatigue wasn’t physical, but mental. His supernatural gifts meant an endless well of physical energy and endurance, but his mind was tired. There was so much to do, and so little time to do it well. How long since he had slept? Six months? A year? Well before the Event, and before the Israel war. So much to get done… he had been charged with these tasks, and he was determined to do them well.

It was a strange series of emotions. At first, elation to see the writing on the wall, to know that God is real and that he exists and that he has chosen you to do his wonders! True, the tasks He had given Nicolae were to oppose Him on earth, to spread discord and suffering, but if that was His will, then it was for Nicolae, His humble servant, to do his bidding to the best of limited human talents.

That understanding had always evaded Stonegal. He didn’t grasp that they were merely playing roles, heightening the stakes, raising the tension for greater drama. Stonegal kept talking about “winning” and “triumph” as though the two were one and the same. Nicolae tried over & over to explain that their greatest triumph would happen with the Return of Christ, and the salvation of humanity, but Stonegal kept seeing events as a battle, or a fight. He thought it was like a chess game, when Nicolae saw clearly it was more like one of those gauche American wrestling exhibitions. He was the Evil High Plains Drifter, the sneering Sophisticate who would taunt the crowd before the big, blonde muscleman came out and tore his own shirt off with his bare hands. Stonegal never understood, could never really accept the real nature of the Tribulation. That was a big part of why Nicolae had him killed: a close confidant could be a relief, an asset, to soothe the stresses and share the burden, but Stonegal was never really on the same page, so their conversations were always like sand in Nicolae’s shoes.

After elation came the gritty demands of reality. It is one thing to see the Writing on the Wall, it’s another to read that writing, and see that it’s a “to-do” list. Even with supernatural powers, endless endurance, the ability to bend the wills of men, there was so much on that list, such massive tasks to be done in such a short time. He had already bent the powers of the U.N. to breaking, crushed the wills of strong men enough to make laughably absurd pronouncements carry the weight of law, and he still had so much more to do. Sleep was a luxury he simply didn’t have.

Cameron Williams was in the building, answering Nicolae’s summons. Cameron was one of the Saved, someone who found God after the Event. When Nicolae killed Stonegal and compelled all present to accept his visions, Cameron was protected, and since he was not part of the visions, no one remembered him being there except Cameron and Nicolae. Since then, he’d ordered Mr. Williams watched, his associates noted and researched, their movements followed. He’d told Hattie and Chaim to pay close attention, and report any religious or evangelical language Mr. Williams used. “For it was given to him to make war on the Saints”. That was another item on the list, as non-negotiable as the rest. If Mr. Williams put himself in the role of ‘holy man’, Nicolae had a duty to make war on him, to wrack him with pain and suffering, and to do so visibly & publicly. This brave new world needed martyrs and saints; Nicolae knew that much. The message of those Christians would gain much-needed weight if the most powerful man was seen to hate and fear them. All he needed was an excuse, a single slip by Cameron, and he could begin the glorious work. Hattie had suggested offering a job to Mr. William’s friend, Rayford Steele. Rayford was a pilot, and could be the “official” pilot for Nicolae; apparently Rayford had found Jesus as well, but was equally reluctant to speak up about it. Keeping those two close meant a good chance at making one into a martyr. And if not, well, they did share a common minister. Odd that Hattie would volunteer one of her former co-workers for martyrdom. Nicolae had the impression that there was some past fondness between the two.

Nicolae shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. It was all just so much work, a mix of the minute and the massive. Find a newly minted Christian to torture to death, establish a one-world currency and religion, find a woman to bear his child, and less than seven years to get it all done. Even without sleep, not enough time for one man, and all the while trivial minutiae kept creeping in. He hated cutting corners, hated having to rush and take the quickest route rather than making the grand gesture, but he had to prioritize. New Babylon had to be great & impressive, demanded time & effort. His bride, the mother of his child, that could probably just be someone from the office. There would be what, a dozen people who would even know about her? He had to prioritize. Mr. Williams was waiting for a meeting, and Nicolae needed a martyr. The rest could wait, even the much-desired sleep.