Cookie Love, Part 2

[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

[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

"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

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

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

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

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

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Friday Change Jar, Tri-State Bird Rescue & Research

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

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

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

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."