Ray Goes to Church pt. 4

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.

Ray Goes to Church Part III

He didn't know how long he was in the cellar behind his house, hiding like a rabbit in its burrow. He wasn't proud of it—he hadn't planned on being down there for so long. It was just that every time he thought about crawling out of there, he never could seem to find the strength. It took all his efforts just to make it up the stairs so he could go outside to use the bathroom.

Most of his days were spent huddling in the dark, crying and weeping, checking every other hour near the burnt remains of his house for signs of his family, and weeping when he found none. He never thought it was possible to cry this much—he thought at some point you must reach your limit, but every time he thought he was done, something would remind him of Irene, Ray-Ray, or Chloe, and the tears would come again. Sometimes he found his hand lingering towards his gun. But he was too spent from grief to have the nerve needed to pull the trigger.

Food wasn't a problem: Irene had always worried about disasters, natural or otherwise, so their cellar was stocked to the brim with all varieties of canned food and bottled water. Trouble was he didn't have the strength to eat. Occasionally he would grab a can, open it, and slowly sup on it, but he felt no hunger, no desire for any nourishment of any kind.

But at some point, he must have reached the end of tears, at some point, the paralysis that had gripped him, had kept him in the dark, lifted, and he found himself staggering off of the cot he'd slept on and staring at himself in the mirror.

I look like death, he thought. He couldn't recognize himself any more. His beard had grown long and his clothes hung loose around his waist. "And you said, 'I'd never get back to my playing weight,'" he muttered, looking at a picture of Irene in his wallet. He would have laughed, at that moment, if he hadn't felt so much like crying. Then he heard it—the sound of footsteps above his shelter. Immediately he grabbed his gun. He didn't know if he could hold off any gangs, but he was sure as hell going to try.

He peered out of his shelter, wincing as he heard the door creak, only to see a sight he never thought he'd see again. "Chloe..." he choked.

There she was, pale as death, leaning on the arm of her roommate, Vivian. His wife had never liked Vivian and truthfully, Vivian had always worried him a little, with her wild hair and clothes, but she and Chloe got along well; they had been roommates since they were both freshman. Last time, he had seen Vivian, her hair was electric blue and she was showing some new midriff tops, the better to show off her belly ring; this time, however, Vivian was like Chloe, dressed in shapeless baggy clothes. He wondered what was with her—Vivian had always leaned towards bold clothing—but then it was obvious; they weren't dressing to make a fashion statement: they were dressing to protect themselves.

"Chloe!" he shouted, so happy to see her alive that he forgot all about hiding from the gangs.
Vivian glared at him. "I don't know who you are, but you got your turn, so lay off. I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it."

Ray sat his gun on the ground as a gesture of good faith and raised his hands. "It's okay. I'm her father."

Vivian turned her head and Ray began to wonder if putting his gun on the ground was such a good idea. "You are," she finally said, with a pained smile. "Geez, you look like hell."

Ray ignored her comment. "You girls eaten yet?"

"No. We used up our last rations days ago." And he knew this was the truth; both Vivian's and Chloe's eyes betrayed a certain hollowness that comes with hunger.

"Follow me." And he led them down into the cellar.

Vivian led Chloe to one of the cots, leading her by the arm as if she was a child. So far, Chloe hadn't said a word, which was new for her. What happened to his bright, vivacious girl who was always full of news to tell? God did, that's what. God had ripped everyone away and reduced his bright daughter to a shell.

He still remembered the words he had said back at the church, but he didn't think much on them. They were fine words but what good was all this moral posturing when he was up against something like this? He turned on the hot plate and heated up some Dinty Moore for Chloe and Vivian. Once it was ready, he ladled some onto some Boy Scout bowls.

Vivian swallowed her food eagerly, barely bothering to blow on the food to cool it, but Chloe sat, staring into space. Vivian licked her bowl clean and turned to Chloe. "Clo, you've got to eat." When Chloe did not move or respond, Vivian sighed and began feeding her. Judging by the bored expression with which she did all this, this was not something new for her.

When the meal was over, there was nothing left except for an awkward silence. Chloe didn't want to talk; he didn't know what to say to her anyway. Only Vivian had the courage needed to break the awkward silence. "So what's the plan now? I mean, I came this way to protect Chloe, and besides I don't have a home to go home to anymore, so I'm kind of wondering what to do now."

"You can stay with us," he said. But as he spoke, he was already calculating how much longer his food stash was going to last, now that he had two more mouths to feed. But he couldn't just turn a young girl outside alone. He started gathering his remaining canned food and water. "I think I know a place we can go for now. Can you help me with all this?"

"Sure." They started gathering armloads of cans and bottles while Chloe sat listlessly on the camp bed.

"By the way," Ray asked. "Do you really have a gun?" Another gun would help add to their protection.

Vivian shook her head. "I was bluffing and hoping like hell you wouldn't call me on it."

"I see." They forced the door to the shelter open and peered cautiously before stepping outside.

The car was where he had left it. The windows were smashed out and the sides were covered in dents but it still looked drivable. They dumped the food and water in back and ran back to the shelter.

"You get Chloe," Ray said. "I've got a few more things to take care of." The two girls climbed the stairs, leaving Ray alone in the pit that had been his home. He looked around for a moment before grabbing some more ammunition for his gun. You never know when you might need it, he thought.

Ray Goes to Church Part II

The instant those words came to mind, he felt strange, a little wicked yet at the same time, he felt as though some cage inside him had been opened. He wonders what Irene would think.

He missed her. In spite of how their marriage had deteriorated to the point where they were barely speaking to each other, he missed her. For all her flaws, he missed her and though he knew it wouldn't do any good, he hoped that wherever she was now, she was happy. He hoped that for all the members of his family: Ray-Ray and Chloe. He rose to his feet, feeling somewhat renewed.

"Preacher, preacher," Loretta mumbled as she tried to comfort Bruce. "Is there anything we can do?"

"Not much," Bruce said. "We need to secure this place from the gangs. So far they haven't done much except break a few windows, but we can't be sure that their attention won't turn to here. If we are to keep everyone safe, we have to secure the building."

"If you don't mind, Bruce, I really need to get going," Ray said. "Chloe and the others might return any minute and I want to be waiting for them."

"Sorry, Ray, I'm afraid I can't let you leave. It's too dangerous to be wandering around in the dark right now. I'm going to have to ask that you stay here for the night."

"Okay." He wasn't too surprised by Bruce's response, though his conscience still bothered him. What if Chloe or Irene and Ray-Ray returned while he was gone? What would they think? "What do you need me to do, Reverend?"

"Try and see if anyone's lucid enough to be put to work. If not, then it'll just be the three of us. In which case we'll need to block off all entrances except the door to fellowship hall and the hall's windows; we'll need them as escape routes should the gangs overrun us."

The three wandered the church, but unfortunately there wasn't much they could do to secure the place. They pushed as much junk as they could against the doors and stuck junk in the doorframe and the locks, hoping to slow down anybody who might try to break down the doors. There wasn't much they could do about the windows except nail sheets of plywood. Thank goodness the church had been in the middle of renovations when the disappearances happened. After they had done all this, they collapsed on the floor of Fellowship Hall, too exhausted to think.

"I guess we better talk who's taking the first watch," Bruce muttered.

"I'll do it," Ray said. "You've been keeping watch all day."

"Do you have a gun?"

"Yeah, a Smith & Wesson," he murmured. He showed it to Bruce. Bruce sighed. "Not much but it'll do for now. Don't fire unless absolutely necessary."

"I won't." There was still the question though, how long, even with all their preparations, could they last. While they hid in the church, out there, the gangs were getting larger and more organized. Most of the people in here were barely lucid. Should a gang attack full force, it wouldn't take them long to overrun the place: the only weapons they had between them was a shotgun and a handgun. Not to mention, even if their luck held out and they weren't attacked, they would still have to leave the church sooner or later: with all these people here, they couldn't survive on canned goods for long.

Ray took his spot at the door and prepared for a long night. But though he knew he should remain as hawk-eyed and vigilant, his thoughts kept turning back to Chloe. How was she doing at Stanford? He knew he shouldn't have let her attend college so far away from home but she had had her heart set on Stanford since she was a girl and he couldn't deny her. He hoped she was managing to survive somehow.

"You okay?" He turned to see Loretta standing next to him.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You need to settle down, try to get some sleep."

"I can't. I don't think I'll ever be able to sleep again. Listen, Bruce found a radio. Maybe it'll have some news."

Bruce turned on the radio and together they crouched around that staticky thing as though it was the potential savior of the world. But the radio had little if any useful news. Most stations were out and the few that had news, didn't tell them anything they didn't already know. They didn't need to be told about roving packs of street gangs; they could see them with their very eyes. There was talk about establishing martial law, but no one could get anything organized: so many people in the government and the military were missing that it was impossible to get anything off the ground.

Bruce turned off the radio. "We'd better save the batteries. We might need it."

Loretta started to cry. "Oh, preacher, do you think my Elliot is suffering. What about my babies and my grandbabies? What do you think is happening to them right now?"

"I wish I could answer your questions—I'd give anything to know what's happened to my wife and baby."

"My wife would say they are with God right now," Ray said.

"That's what Rev. Billings always said." Bruce turned away, as though suddenly pained.

"But why? Why has he taken my Elliot? Elliot was a good man. Sure he killed people on Okinawa, but that was war."

Ray watched silently as Loretta sobbed, his anger growing by the minute. The memory of the vow he had made back in the sanctuary still hung in his mind and burned even brighter now. He didn't want to serve any God that arbitrarily ripped families apart then left people behind to be tortured. If he ever met whoever did this, he would shove his gun in their face and personally blow their head off their shoulders. He vowed to live his life as a rebellion against such a capricious, mean-spirited force and if it meant going to hell, than he could go to hell with his conscience intact.

Loretta lifted her head. Her grey hair had fallen askew and her eyes were swollen and puffy. "Do you think it's true, preacher? That God's called all the good people back to heaven like Rev. Billings said."

"I don't know. I've been studying the Reverend's papers but none of this makes sense. If he loves us, then why does he want us to suffer horribly?"

"Well, I don't." Ray sat up with a start. "You guys can believe Billings's story all you like, but you'll never make a believer out of me. If God is as bloodthirsty as he says, then I refuse to believe." His words echoed on the air.

He had rather expected they would be shocked by what he had said, that they would argue bitterly with him. Instead he saw them nodding silently in agreement.

"I know what you mean, Ray," Loretta said. She took a deep breath. "I've felt the same way for a long time—I've just never had the courage to say so. All these years, warming the pew and I've never believed." She breathed. "I've never told this tale to anyone and I don't know why I'm telling it now, but I guess it's because the past has remained buried for too long.

I was living with my parents in Georgia when it happened: I fell in love with a man named John Watson. The only problem was he was black and I was white and Jim Crow still ruled." Ray winced. He already knew how this story was going to end, but Loretta kept talking.
"We managed to keep our love a secret for awhile but eventually I became pregnant.

Now I knew very well that my parents would kill me and my lover if they found out, so I did my best to keep it secret, but eventually they found out. They yelled and screamed at me for hours until finally I slipped and revealed his name.

I can't tell you clearly what happened next—my parents shipped me off to a home for unwed mothers and we never spoke to each other again—but I do know what happened to John. They hanged him from the highest tree, butchered him like an animal." She paused, tears coming to her eyes. "After that, I could never feel at home as a Christian, after those people killed John and made me give up my baby. I faked it for many years, because it was expected of me as a dutiful wife—people would get a little suspicious if Elliot's wife wasn't in church—and I kept on faking it out of simple, stupid habit. But I guess now I'm free." She smiled a weak, pained smile. Ray sighed. He massaged his temples. He had never thought he'd hear such a tale from sweet Loretta who gave out peppermint candies to his kids on Sunday. He felt a little guilty. His reason for not believing was that he had simply stopped. He hadn't believed ever since the Rev. Billings terrified Ray-Ray with stories of hellfire and damnation, and now with the disappearances, he'd never felt angrier or more spiteful towards any being that would call themselves God.

Bruce tended to the flock as they needed, providing whatever food or drink or comfort they might need, but there wasn't much he could do. These people he surrounded himself with were gone, completely and totally; only their physical bodies remained. Ray watched as he tried to coax some of the flock into taking a drink of water.

Loretta went over to him. "Preacher, is there anything I can do to help?"

"Just rest, Loretta," he said as he silently poured water down someone's throat. It was clear he had a story in him too, one that was struggling to burst its way out and he was struggling to keep in.

"Preacher, is something the matter?"

"Yes," he finally admitted, "there is something wrong. I hear you and Ray talking about how you want nothing to do with God and I know that I, as the associate pastor, should do something to intervene, but I can't help but nod and agree with every word you say." He sighed and rested against the wall, still keeping the shotgun close at hand. "My story is quite simple. I am the visitation pastor for this church and as you know my duties involve tending to the sick. As a result, I see a lot of misery and sickness.

The thing is people who are sick or dying; don't care about your interpretation of the letters to Paul. They want to pray with the pastor, and not just "Thy will be done" prayers, but real prayers.

I threw myself into this job. I ignored all my misgivings about the reverend's teachings and set to work. I prayed my tongue off. But the thing is, no matter what, the odds ran exactly as the doctors predicted. If they predicted a 9 in 10 chance of survival, most of the time the patient died. I mean, is this prayer doing anything?

But I kept at it, plodding along until I met Veronica. Veronica was in the terminal stages of bone cancer; by this point, there was absolutely nothing that could be done. But still I showed up and I prayed my ass off, but as I was in the middle of my prayers, she turned to me and said, 'Fuck God.' After she said that, I couldn't continue. I tried to resume my place in the script but it was lost. After she said this, I watched as she went into seizures and died, real hard.

Afterwards, I could hear nothing but her words in my ears, and I wondered, what that meant for her and God. Would God damn her because of something she said while in the throes of excruciating pain? I looked and looked through every book I could find, but I could find no answer.

Months after, I still had no answer and I wasn't sure if I could believe in anyone who'd damn a person over such a matter. I mean, we talk about Hell and hellfire, but does anyone really think about what it means to burn forever, as in a punishment without an end. Does anyone, however bad or rotten they may be, deserve to suffer forever? I confess, Loretta, I like you continued going to church out of habit and simply because it was my job. What would my family do if I wasn't a preacher? Being able to interpret the psalms isn't exactly a highly demanded skill. So I stayed by Rev. Billings's side because while I hated God, I also couldn't imagine being apart from him and I couldn't let my family starve."

Ray nodded. It was all he could do to keep his mouth shut as he heard all these stories of pain and misery. He knew if he opened it, more stories of his own would start spilling out. He wanted to tell everybody about the wife and son he had lost; the daughter who was stranded on the west coast. He wanted to tell how even though the love had since gone out of their marriage; he never once regretted marrying Irene. But he knew once he started talking, he'd never stop, so he kept his mouth shut.

The night was long and no one got much sleep. Every time they heard the sound of a window breaking or a car going by, they would look up to see what was going on. Also by telling their stories, Loretta and Bruce had started something of a chain amongst the group. Nearly everyone there wanted to theorize on whether God was involved and if it did, what it meant about his nature. Everyone had lost somebody, and everyone wanted to tell about whom they had lost and how much they had meant to them. Ray tried to remained stony-faced, his eyes focused on the door, but as he listened to their tales, made up of simple joys like the way the sunlight hit their hair in the morning, he grew misty-eyed. Was this some sort of great ransom? Would God return them once they were sobbing and groveling at his feet? What had he done with sweet Irene, the woman who never stopped praying for everybody's soul, Ray-Ray, who was the type of boy who wanted everyone to win, and Chloe, smart and funny Chloe?
He would raid heaven itself if it would bring them back.

Morning came, and soon they found themselves in a flurry of activity, as Bruce opened up a few cans of food for breakfast. Bruce waited until everybody was served before he finally opened a can of fruit cocktail for himself. "So I guess you'll be leaving us," he said.

"Yeah." Ray felt a little guilty for abandoning them, but what if Chloe or the others returned while he was gone? They might need him.

"Be careful." Loretta gave him a peck on the cheek.

He stepped outside, breathing in the air. The air smelt acrid, the scent of smoke hung strong on the breeze. He wandered to where he had hid his car, unable to shake the feeling that there was something following him. Maybe it was a ghost; after all, there seemed to be a lot of them lately.

He found his car where he had left it, parked under a tree that was bent nearly to the ground. A corpse hung from the tree, its unclad feet touching the battered hood of his car. The person moved with the tree as it swung gently in the breeze.

The person had been beaten to a pulp; his nude body had been sprayed repeatedly with spray paint and around his neck, hung a cardboard sign, covered with obscenities. Half of his hair had been shaved away, giving him the appearance of a crude mohawk.

Ray felt his stomach churn. He bent over and puked, vomiting up the canned peaches he had eaten for breakfast. He raised a hand to steady his head. Get a grip, Ray, he thought. You have to stay strong, for Irene and the family. He forced himself to walk over to the car, past the corpse. All the glass in his car had been smashed; spray-painted obscenities obscured the original paint. He slid into the driver's seat. Thankfully the car still started; the punks only did cosmetic damage. He revved up the motor and sped down the street, leaving the church and the corpse behind.

Ray Goes to Church

Ray was not surprised when Bruce greeted him at the door with a shotgun at his side, but still the sight of the cold metal shocked him deep inside. The whole world had gone to Hell in only a matter of hours.

He had been lucky enough not to run into too much trouble on his way to the church. A couple of youths threw a brick at his car but that was the extent of the damage.

His neighbourhood had been gutted and raped by pillagers. He was about the only one still left in the neighbourhood, the rest having fled. Only a bunch of unruly youths stayed around, looting and pillaging, delighting in their wanton destruction.

He had gone to the church not because he believed, but because Irene did. Irene had been a faithful parishioner at New Hope Village for years and he knew that if their positions were reversed and he had been taken that's where she'd be: at the church praying for answers. So he went, clinging to the futile hope that maybe he'd find his own answers.

The preacher who greeted him was not the young-faced boy who stood beside Rev. Billings every Sunday; this Bruce was a different creature all together. His face looked hollow, haunted, and gaunt; the circles around his eyes so dark that they looked like bruises. He trembled as he stood in the doorway, one hand still wrapped tight around the barrel of his shotgun.

Ray raised his hands. "It's okay, Bruce. I'm Ray, Irene's husband. You know, Irene Steele." He was babbling and he knew it but part of him was still a little scared that Bruce would blow his head off his shoulders. He wouldn't blame him if he did. The world had gone to hell and everyone had to do what they could to protect themselves.

Silently, Bruce opened the door and let him in. "If you're coming here to use our phones, I've got to warn you: they're disconnected. All our power's out, but I'll try to find a place for you. I'll find a place for everybody," he mumbled.

Ray tiptoed through the rows of bodies that lay on the floor. Nearly every square inch of Fellowship hall was crammed with bodies, huddled masses of human refuse weeping and moaning. Some paced nervously like sad ghosts. Others merely sat on the floor and wailed. None acknowledged Ray as he tiptoed through the hall.

Everywhere he went in the church, it was the same thing: masses of people huddled together, their eyes frightened and gone. Some prayed but most just sobbed or stared off in the distance. There was a dead look in their eyes, a frightening look, of someone who had just had something very important peeled away from them. Ray knew that look; he had seen it himself when he looked in the mirror to shave. "Chloe," he murmured, "Oh god, Chloe." He still hadn't heard from her—phones were out everywhere and she was on the other side of the country. He hoped she was all right.

He had hoped for a few minutes alone in the sanctuary but when he went in there, it was crammed with bodies too. The air stank of sweat and waste, so strong it made him gag. He knelt at the altar, next to an old lady he knew as Loretta. He smiled. He used to have fond memories of seeing her every Sunday back when he used to go to church.

"So what are you here for?" she said in a dull voice. He remembers how she used to sit in front of them in church. She used to give Chloe peppermint candy. He doubts she has any right now.

"Same as you. I want answers." He could barely get the words out of his mouth before he felt like crying. Irene. Ray-Ray. Chloe. God, how he missed them.

"We all do." He looked up to see Bruce standing over him. He gestured to the huddled masses that lay on and between the pews. "They've been arriving non-stop since it happened. I've done my best to be there for them—I've listened to more sob stories in five minutes than most preachers hear in a lifetime—but I don't know anymore. I just can't do it. They're counting on me for answers, and I just don't have them." He choked. The people in the pews turned and murmured in response.

"Preacher..." Loretta mumbled, but she didn't know what to say any more than Ray did.

Bruce waved around a black videocassette. "Rev. Billings prepared this as an 'In Case of Rapture' tape. Guess he in his infinite wisdom didn't count on there being no electricity should the rapture occur." He threw the tape against the podium.

"So do you think this is the rapture?" Ray clutched his head. He knew about the rapture. Lately it had been all Irene could talk about was rapture, rapture, rapture! She would buy every book she could get on the subject, and constantly lectured him, Ray-Ray, and Chloe about it. He had gotten rather sick of hearing about the rapture and sometimes had wished it would come so he could have a little peace and quiet.

"I don't know." Bruce choked. "I don't know anything anymore." He burst out weeping and Ray turned away. He didn't know how to deal with his own emotions, let alone someone else's. Loretta walked up to him and offered him a Kleenex. "Preacher, preacher," she murmured. "If it is the rapture, than what are we? We can't be all bad people. What about the children?"

"I don't know," he said. "I know I should know this stuff—I went to seminary for it and I spent years serving Rev. Billings—but I really don't know. I came here because I have a duty to protect my congregation and I am going to do the best I can to feed and shelter all these people, but I can't give you the answer to anything."

Ray sat at the altar and wondered. Was it really the rapture? Sure seemed like it. All the children were gone and in only minutes, everything had gone to hell. What did that mean for Irene though? Was she in heaven laughing at him at this very minute?

He remembered the last sermon he had attended with Rev. Billings. Billings was new to the congregation, had only been in for a month, when he started preaching on the rapture. He remembered sitting there in the pews as the man's voice thundered to the heavens about the sufferings sinners faced and remembered how for the first time in his life, he felt like rebelling against God. The feeling was further deepened when he noticed Ray-Ray crying. Is it really doing the Lord's work to terrify a child into heaven? After that, he couldn't bring himself to go, couldn't bring himself to face that smug face that calmly proclaimed the damned from the elect. He'd lost count of the number of arguments he and Irene had had about it.

Now as he knelt at the altar, he still felt like rebelling. If this was the Lord's work than God was a cruel, vicious tyrant who needed to be overthrown. Was this some kind of joke of his, ripping away families and innocent children? He did not claim to know who or what God is but he knew who he was and knew he could never bend the knee to such a tyrant. If it meant he would go to Hell, than he'd go to Hell.