It's a Tough Job

"Mr. Yahweh's office, Ms. Diaz speaking. How may I help you?" The efficient, lovely woman with the sensible shoes winces as she recognizes the familiar voice coming out of her intercom. "Ah, Mr. Carpathia. I'm sorry, but the Lord is currently unavailable. I believe we have discussed this in our previous conversations. The assimilation of the Raptured is taking most of His time and will continue to do for the foreseeable future. Perhaps I could at least be of some assistance?"

She pauses to let the undeniably charismatic tones of the caller wash over her for a moment. Still, she is a professional, and she cuts the man off sharply, "Sir, I realize that you have expressed difficulties with your position previously. Rest assured that the Firm has been quite pleased with your results. I will remind you of the commendation that you received for your U.N. speech." The soothing voice on the other end of the line erupts into a blistering, and yet still charming, tirade.

After a moment, the woman punches the mute button and retrieves a file from her desk drawer. Another moment, and she picks up the conversation again, cutting smoothly into the continuing diatribe. "Mr. Carpathia? I have your file right here, and I do see the letters of protest that you lodged against that particular speech. 'Inane drivel' 'hopelessly out of touch with modern society' and 'thundering outrage' are some of the more choice phrases that you used. However, the Lord was quite pleased with your results even after taking your protests under advisement."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Ms. Diaz waits for another break in the conversation. When it comes, her voice is shark-smooth, "Perhaps, Mr. Carpathia, if you could summarize the current objections to your assignment in a less volatile and more succinct manner, perhaps I would better be able to assist you in resolving these objections?"

There is a brief silence, and then a resigned sigh. Ms. Diaz listens patiently, occasionally jotting down a few notes to herself in the margin of Mr. Carpathia's file. At last he winds down. She responds briskly, "Very well, sir. If I may summarize? You feel that your ascension to the United Nations is plausible but only barely. I believe we've covered that in previous conversation, and that your commendation should reassure you there. You are frustrated with your instructions to, as you say, take over the world in less than seven years including converting every one to one world religion as you find this preposterous, and you think that our requirement that everyone be speaking Basque within that time frame to be, ah how did you put it? Linguistically insane, logically treasonous, and theologically ludicrous?"

A snort from the intercom seems to confirm the summary, and Ms. Diaz smiles. "Mr. Carpathia, or may I call you A.C. at this point? A.C., let us be clear here. These things will happen, for it is in the best interest of the Firm that they happen on time and within the allowable budget. You were selected for your position from a veritable host of qualified candidates, and we chose you precisely because we felt that you could pull off thirteen impossible things before breakfast. You, in fact, used that very phrase in your interview."

She flips open a secondary file and says, "Now, I don't want you to think that we are unreasonable, A.C. Our accounting department shows that you used only 68.3% of your allotted miracles in achieving the position of Secretary General of the United Nations. We can allow an increase in your budget for this upcoming year of, say, 17% to account for any unforeseen difficulties in achieving your required targets for the year?"

Ms. Diaz allows herself a satisfied nod as the voice acquiesces. "Very good sir. I look forward to receiving your next report. Do remember that the disarmament and treaty with Israel is your top priority for the year. We are prepared to accept English or French as a substitute world language if you can not achieve Basque, but your bonus will be impacted by any deviation from the Revelation Plan."

The intercom squawks a graceless (but oh-so-dulcet) "Thanks," and cuts off. Miss Diaz shakes her head once, re-files the papers on her desk, and punches a number into the telephone. "Sir? I have the figures on the Israeli Miracle Growth Formula that you requested. Yes sir, I'll be right in."

Buck's Conversion

He had stared his own mortality in the face and had to acknowledge that something otherworldly -- yes, supernatural, something directly from God almighty -- had been thrust upon those dusty hills in the form of a fire in the sky.

That's when it all fell apart. That day when the bombs failed to fall. Surely it was the Hand of God that reached out to spare the Holy Land. Nothing had been right since then, but something so big, so enormous wasn't something that Buck was ready to accept at the time. None of the world was really. Buck had sidled up to the realization of God, catching glimpses out of the corner of his eye -- waking up from terrible dreams of fire falling on dusty hills, feeling his breath falter when he heard an unfamiliar noise, looking up into the sky more than he had before that terrible day.

Sometimes, when forced to endure the quiet of his apartment, he would find himself trying to explain it all away. Every time, his explanations range hollow -- false words from a false man who just wanted things to stay the same. Each time, it too a little more convincing to deny the miracle.

When the faithful vanished, Buck sought refuge in the same flimsy excuses and rationalizations. A strange electro-magnetic event. Sunspots. Aliens seeking conquest. Each time he sought answers, his mind circled back to that day -- the day he stood in the presence of God.
For days now, he had avoided even thinking about it. He was too busy, he told himself. He was going to get the big story, find out the truth. No matter that he knew his career was all built on bluff and misdirection. This time, this time, he'd get it right. Hell, maybe he'd even get the girl for once. So he asked for the interview with Raymond. He'd make this story personal -- an interview with the pilot of his plane when the Event happened. Surely he could write that.

Then Raymond had spent the entire interview talking about his theories of God and the Rapture. At first, Buck has been irritated. What Steele had said wasn't going to make good copy. Readers didn't want to read about yet another theory, and Buck didn't really want to write about it anyway.

As Raymond was drawing to a close, the universe shifted. Buck's soul was torn open and left quivering in a unrelenting spotlight of harsh truth. It wasn't Raymond speaking anymore, but God. God, through some unfathomable mystery, had put Buck on that flight. For some explicable reason, Buck -- horrible sinner that he was -- mattered. In that instant of horrific clarity, Buck saw himself. All his faults were laid bare; his self-denial, his disloyalties, his jealous fantasies - all burned themselves into his awareness as Raymond, poor clumsy Raymond, spoke with God's voice of salvation.

Buck managed to pull himself together long enough to whisper his thanks to Raymond -- though he realized even then that his was truly thanking God -- before fleeing to his apartment.

He'd planned to get drunk.

Instead, he found himself remembering that day in Israel when the bombs failed to fall. Buck fell to his knees, unheeded tears streaming down his face as he confronted the truth. This was God's plan. God was bringing mankind to account at long last for all the horrors that he had done, and He had graciously taken His children out of the fray. Not only had the Lord spared those who had seen the truth, He had also done so in the most astonishing way possible. Even now, Jesus was reaching out a hand to those who had forsaken Him. In agony, Buck looked upon his soul and recoiled from what he saw. "Please," he whispered to God as he curled in upon himself, "Please forgive me."