Conversions 7

"The Antichrist?" said Gary. "You mean like Damien or something?"

"Well, sort of," said Paul. "According to the checklist, the Antichrist is going to be a charismatic politician, probably at the UN."

They sat round the table in Paul's office: Paul, Gary, Patrick, and Kate, with all the Rapture leaflets and books Kate had accumulated. The dreadful predictions barely varied from one leaflet to another: at least they knew exactly what was coming.

"That Nicolae Whatsit," said Patrick. "He's charismatic - did you hear that speech he gave?"

Paul nodded. The new leader of the United Nations, hastily sworn in after his predecessor was confirmed among the disappeared, had spoken simply and emotionally about the need for unity in this time of horror. He had stressed the need for the nations of the earth to pool their resources, since this was their only hope for finding their missing children or preventing more disappearances.

"That's another warning sign," said Kate. "The Antichrist is going to be all about peace."

Gary picked up one of the leaflets by the corner, as if he was afraid it would give him fleas. "So the Antichrist is the opposition, is he? He's fighting the ba- the Rapture God?"

"Eventually." Kate sounded tired, as if the angry energy that had sustained her in church had finally run out. "He's going to run around wrecking things for a while, before God shows up and beats him senseless."

"But we're on his side, right?" said Gary. "If he's fighting God, and we're fighting God..."

"There are worse things to be than on his side," said Patrick. "Everything he said in that speech was something you can really believe in."

Kate shook her head. "It was all a lie. There's a war coming, and he's going to start it. Oh, he probably won't mean to, an idealist like him, but that's how it's going to work out."

"You don't know that," said Patrick. "Maybe if someone talked to him, showed him the prophecies, he'd know what not to do."

"He's already seen them," said Kate. "He must have millions of advisors, and the Rapture people are everywhere. Someone must have made the connection by now, even if he didn't know about it before."

"So he knows," said Patrick. "He knows what would start a war if he did it, and he won't do it."

"Or he'll decide some things are worth starting a war over," said Kate. "If he's the Antichrist, you think he'll have a problem with a little war?"

Gary looked from one to the other, wearing an expression of complete bewilderment. "So which side are we on?"

"Nicolae's," said Patrick. Kate shook her head, but didn't say anything.

"The Antichrist is fighting against God," said Paul, "but he's not fighting for us. It's between the two of them, and we're just the battlefield."

"Oh," said Gary. Now he looked as if he understood - and rather wished he was still confused.

"We can still help Nicolae, can't we?" said Patrick. "Or ... at least give him some sort of support."

Paul shook his head. "He's going to do some terrible things, especially to followers of the Rapture God."

"Serve them right," said Gary.

"You think it serves Lucy Woolford right, if she follows the Rapture God in the hopes of seeing her children again, and dies horribly for it?"

"Anyone who's stupid enough to worship that bastard..." grumbled Gary. "No, I suppose not. But what's the alternative? The Antichrist, or that..."

The three of them looked at Paul. Patrick, still wanting to believe the best of Nicolae; Gary, willing to consider any opposition to the Rapture God; Kate, miserably disillusioned with every option. They all needed something from him.

He looked down at the pile of books. "It doesn't say anywhere that there can only be two sides."

"But what other side is there?" said Gary.

"The side of humanity," said Paul. "The side of the people who are going to get hurt by all this. We won't be able to keep everyone safe, but we'll do what we can."

Conversions 6

The church wasn't as full as it had been in the first hours: some people were grieving in private, and others were looking for answers that had nothing to do with God. But enough people had come back - drawn, Paul guessed, by curiosity as much as anything.

"You've probably already heard the Rapture theory," he said. "You've probably seen the new converts preaching, or read their leaflets, or seen their videos. They're claiming that it was God who took the children, that this is the beginning of the end of the world."

A few nods, a few murmurs of agreement. Did that just mean that they'd heard the theory, or that they believed it?

"They're partly right," Paul said. "The predictions they've made about the end of the world - they're coming true so far. Even if there was another explanation for the disappearances, this is the only one that fits all the facts. Something - someone - with a power we can't even begin to understand - has taken our children, and is now making these prophecies come true."

He looked across at Patrick, who was staring at him in something like horror. Quickly, he cleared his throat and went on.

"This is the work of a God, but not the God I've believed in. The God you'll find in the Rapture leaflets is arbitrary, petty, jealous, vindictive. All He has is power - the only reason to worship Him is fear. And I'm not going to worship any God out of fear."

Patrick looked faintly relieved, but none of the other faces held anything so encouraging. Some looked frightened, others disgusted, still others stared back at him as if he'd started speaking in tongues.

"I believed in a just and loving God. I no longer know whether that God has any existence outside my imagination, but I believe that He represents something worth honouring. Even if He isn't real, we can make the world a better place by living as if He was."

A couple of nods, but they were outweighed by the blank stares.

"If the Rapture God is really the only God, this is a dangerous thing to believe - I know that. The future doesn't promise much safety for any of us, but defying the Rapture God is a worse risk than appeasing Him. I can't ask anyone to stand with me in that kind of defiance. If you want to leave this church today and save your souls before Him, I won't stop you."

"What about our children?" Lucy Woolford asked. "If God's taken them, surely we should be praying for their safe return?"

Paul took a deep breath. "If the Rapture theory is true, your children are ... well, they're dead. If you pray to the Rapture God, you might see them again in Heaven - that's the only hope that's left. I'm sorry."

"In that case," said Lucy, "that's all the more reason not to defy God."

"I thought that for a while," called a woman's voice from the back of the church. Paul didn't recognise her, and it was only the look of joyful recognition on Patrick's face that told him it was Kate. "I thought I should kiss His holy backside until he let me be with Demi. But it won't work."

"Why not?" demanded Chris Green.

"Because He's a bastard, a real twenty-four carat tosser," said Kate. "You can't trust someone like that, can you? You grovel to them, do everything they say, and then they turn round and say, 'Sorry, there's one little stupid thing you missed, so you're out of luck.'"

"So you're saying we should do nothing?" said Lucy. "Or do you think effing and blinding like that is going to help?"

"Nope," said Kate. "Whatever we do isn't going to bring the kids back, and it probably won't get us near them afterwards either. So all that's left is to forget them and just do what's right."

No-one liked the sound of that, and Paul could hardly blame them. They'd just heard - probably the first time anyone had spelled it out - that their children were as good as dead, and that God was directly responsible. Now Kate was blasting into what illusions they had left, and they were going to shoot the messenger.

"She's right," he said, as loudly and as forcefully as he knew how. "We've all lost loved ones before - not in this terrible wholesale way, but we all know the pain of bereavement. In the end, all we can ever do is try to live our lives in the way our departed friends would have wanted."

"But what you're saying," said Chris, "we can't even hope to see them in Heaven. Not if we ... well, if she's right about everything."

"It's difficult," said Paul. "I can't even begin to imagine how difficult. And if you want to follow the Rapture God, I won't stand in your way. But St Andrew's will be a refuge, for anyone who wants to believe in something better. However thin that hope might be."

Meet the New Boss

The sound of the pistol shot was like a physical blow within the confines of the conference room. Buck Williams looked at the gun in his hands like he'd never known such things existed, watched as it slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor with a metallic clunk. Saw the gun lying there on the tiled floor, saw the thin streamer of blood flowing past it. His eyes followed the blood like tracing a river upstream on a map, until they reached the body of Nicholae Carpathia with a ragged hole in its chest. It seemed as though the blankly staring eyes were looking directly at him, as though the death rictus twisting the mouth was a grin, and Carpathia was sharing a secret joke.

"Jesus, Buck, what the hell did you do that for?"

Buck looked up. Every eye in the conference room was on him. He focused on the face of Hattie Durham as she spoke. "That was the frickin' Secretary General of the United Nations, Buck! What the hell were you thinking?"

"I . . . don't know," was all Buck could say.

Jonathan Stonagal's mouth was a thin, hard line. "I'm going to have to call the police, Buck."

The police! Buck felt the first twinges of panic rising. They would arrest him, send him to prison, perhaps even execute him! Did they have the death penalty in New York? As Stonagal pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, Buck blurted out, "No!"

Stonagal's hand froze, then slowly replaced the phone. His features smoothed out into an expressionless stare. "What should I do then, Buck?"

It took some time for Buck to realize what was happening. Stonagal was doing what Buck told him to do!

"Get out!" Buck ordered. "Get out of here. Go back to your office. Forget you saw anything happen."

His face still without expression, Stonagal rose from his chair and walked out of the room. To the others in the room, Buck repeated, "All of you, get out of here, and forget you saw anything happen!" Every face in the room mirrored Stonagal's blank expression as the others rose as one and walked out, ignoring the bleeding corpse on the floor.

When he was alone in the room, Buck looked back down at Carpathia's body. It seemed to him that he could hear the Romanian's voice. You have conquered, Buck. All that I had is yours. What is your will?

Becoming conscious of the power he now commanded, Buck Williams smiled at the thought that he would never have to sweat another story deadline ever again.

Working Late

Inspired by Fred Clark's most generous interpretation of Bailey's actions - I fear it may be obvious, but as we all know, it is the obvious things which LaHaye and Jenkins may be relied upon to miss.

May become a series or not, depending.

---

Eva Carlisle hit the "Send" button on the proofs she'd just finished and rubbed her eyes. Byline credit on a full feature article was quite a thrill for a college sophomore intern, but it took a lot more work than the background research and fact-checking she was doing three weeks ago, before. ("Before", she muttered to herself, and chuckled. Before and after were soloists, now, no need to mention the what.) Adding her classes and homework now that the university was back in session, and she was spending a lot of late hours in front of computers at Columbia and Global Weekly both. Leaving for the dorm at - she checked her watch - one-thirty-five was just normal. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and began quitting programs.

Suddenly, she heard a thump, and cursing. Her hand darted into her bag, and after a moment's fumbling came up with her revolver. Taking care to keep her finger off the trigger and the gun pointed in a safe direction (her roommate had been very emphatic about that), she carefully stood, slung the bag over her shoulder, and called out. "Who's there?"

The cursing trailed off into silence. It sounded like it was coming from Mr. Bailey's office. She walked carefully across the darkened floor to the door and listened for a moment. No sound. She wondered if she should go call the cops for a moment. Instead, she took her right hand off the gun and, covering the doorway with the revolver, slowly turned the knob on the door.

"Who is it?" came a voice from inside - Mr. Bailey, she realized.

"Eva Carlisle," she replied, quickly (carefully!) putting the gun back in her bag. "I'm an intern here - I was just about to leave when I thought I heard a noise," she continued, and opened the door.

The lights were out. Stanton Bailey was sitting on the couch in his office, his tie unknotted but his posture deliberately straight. A mostly-empty bottle of vodka sat on the desk with a shot glass next to it.

"Vodka? I thought whiskey was traditional in the news business," Eva joked, and blushed at her temerity. I'm not even being paid, she thought, and I'm cracking wise with the publisher?

"I prefer vodka," Bailey said, enunciating very precisely. His eyebrows twitched for a moment, and he checked his watch. "Working late?"

"Uh, yes. I was just heading out - do you want a ride home?"

"No," he said, quickly. "No, I'm just going to lie down on the couch here. I don't want ... I mean, I don't ... see a reason to go back and forth when I have to be here early. I'll just sleep on the couch, here."

"Okay, sir," Eva replied. She noticed his clothes were wrinkled, as if he had been sleeping on the couch for days. "Good night, then."

Bailey nodded stiffly. Eva backed out of the room and shut the door.

She paused for a moment outside his office, thinking. Then she borrowed his secretary's address book and brought it back to her desk, where a few minutes searching came up with his home number. The phone rang four times, and kicked over to an answering machine. It was a woman's voice.

"Hi, you've reached the Baileys. We're not home right now, so please leave a message with your name and number at the beep. God bless!"

Beep.

She hung up.

Then she put her head down and cried.

Getting things straight

[So I was thinking: could I make Buck sympathetic?]

"Well, well, well." Verna looked Buck up and down twice. "I never thought I'd see the great Cameron Williams screw up like this."

Buck swallowed. When Bruce Barnes had talked about the terrible things the Antichrist would do to anyone who opposed him, Buck had thought he was talking about physical dangers. His new faith had brought new courage, and the prospect of physical danger didn't frighten him. He hadn't expected this battering to his professional pride.

Everyone thought he'd screwed up. Every attempt he'd made at an explanation just sounded like a particularly incoherent excuse, and in the end there was nothing he could do but bow his head and let them go on thinking that. The worst part was how many people seemed happy to see him in disgrace: his old attitudes had rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

"Just show me where my desk is," he said. "The sooner I can get settled in..." He left the sentence hanging in the air. Getting started early had seemed like a good idea - it beat hanging around on his own, nursing his injured pride - but from the look on Verna's face, she didn't care what felt best for him.

"Not so fast, Cameron," she said. "First of all, we need to get a few things straight."

"Buck," he said. "Please call me Buck - no-one's called me Cameron since my mother died."

"I'll call you Cameron," she said. "It's the name on your driver's licence, isn't it?"

"Yes, but no-one calls me it. Seriously, Verna-"

"I expect my subordinates to call me Ms Zee."

Buck winced as he remembered the way he'd spoken to her last time he was in the Chicago office. He'd acted like a complete dick, throwing his weight around and telling her off for doing the best job she could. Now, she was the one in charge, and she was getting her own back. "I see."

"I hope you do see, Cameron. I don't want any of your stupid alpha-male antics disrupting things here. It's hard enough now Lucinda's gone, without you adding to it. And if that doesn't motivate you, remember I just have to tell Stanton Bailey you're not up to the job."

She didn't trust him, and probably for good reason. It wasn't just the supposed screw-up: for years, he'd put his ego before his work. He was trying to change, but Verna had no way of knowing that.

"I understand," he said. "I won't give you any problems."

"You'd better not."

"Would you show me where my desk is now?"

She smiled. "We don't have a desk to spare for you just at the moment. You'll have to share with Alice."

That couldn't be right - surely there would be at least a few spare desks that had belonged to disappeared staff? But the smile, and the look in her eyes, explained it. This was another way of putting him in his place. "OK. What's my first assignment?"

"Assignment? Oh, Cameron, you really don't understand, do you? You can't be trusted with assignments. You'll be helping Alice with the filing and coffee for a few weeks. If you do a satisfactory job of that, I might let you do some background reporting - without a by-line."

The worst of it was, he couldn't blame it all on Carpathia. If he hadn't antagonised Verna so badly, she would have found him a few hard-to-screw-up assignments and let him work off his disgrace naturally. This was just the consequences of his own actions, coming back to haunt him.

He sent up a silent prayer for humility as he followed Verna to his new desk.

More Updates

Thanks to our new writers grenadine and MercuryBlue for their patience while they were added to the sidebar. Their links, plus links to the recent sets of stories are in place and the main Index is once again current. A new Tribulation Force section has been added and the movie version of Left Behind is now below the book.

Remember, if you have a story that you'd like to contribute to Right Behind you can use the email link in the sidebar to request access.

Index Post for Does God Have Plans for Verna?

T.F. : The Militant Verna, Tribulation Force, pp. 5-8

Here's an index post for the first part of Does God Have Plans for Verna?

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 1
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 2
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 3
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 4
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 5
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 6
Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 7

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 7

Intermission with your friend Steve:

Steve looked at the barrel of the gun he had stolen from the crime scene after the investigations had abruptly concluded. He had tried to call Buck, but the calls hadn’t been answered, hadn’t even gotten through. He wanted to apologize, say that it wasn’t him who had sold him out so callously, that he knew the whole thing was rigged all along, but he couldn’t reach. He couldn’t reach anyone outside of New York anymore.

He never wanted to feel as hideous as he had these last few weeks. The force had come off and on, at first subtly, but once the strange Romanian Robert Redford with the mountain name had come along, it was more forceful. It toyed with his brain, angrily picking it over, disgusted and hateful of those beautiful memories he and Buck had shared once upon a time, even recently, when he had helped him so lovingly for his big date with the handsome foreigner. It had been unconventional sure, with even other queers appalled at the openness of the format and the intense closet of their public life.

But then, they had never been at the head of one of the top news organization. There were considerations. Stanton Bailey was an insane John Bircher. Steve had to pretend to be a crazed anti-semite just to be employed there, though Steve always suspected it was a cruel joke as he was about the most obvious Jew he knew. Such a person would have been hardly willing to employ an out gay man as well.

Plus, it helped revive the image of the paper. Under Bailey’s management, the reputation built on global investigative journalism had devolved mostly into insane conspiracy theories and seminars on how to present oneself as the Liberal Media that were mostly retreads of far-right insanity. Steve had been able to reign in that ultra-stupid construction and retain the image of impeccable journalism.

When Stanton brought in Buck to be the new wunderkid, he had some early promise and a blind luck to stumble into at least the bare bones of a story that could be knocked into shape by more competent writers. More importantly, he had the most beautiful blue eyes that Steve had ever seen. Steve could fall deeply into those eyes and had indeed done so snuggling him close in bed after a hard day in the office.

So the promise never amounted to much and Steve found himself usually massively rewriting the “ace reporter’s” crap work or slapping his name on some other better journalist’s investigation to keep his reputation good and strong enough to justify taking him on all those press junkets around the world.

And when Mr. Mountains had offered him the press secretary gig with way more pay and a chance to be witness to some really impressive history, not to mention an unlimited spending account and access to any Presidential Suite in the world, he had been too ready in hindsight to jump at the opportunity. Hadn’t he paid his price in blood? And it wasn’t like he was getting any younger. If it meant a chance to finally be out with his primary and be able to walk the streets hand-in-hand, any amount of political “fishiness” could be assuaged. Especially if he helped cover on Buck’s role as head reporter contact.

It had been a perfect plan, really. But then there was the bombing and Buck refused his role right after we pitched the offer so perfectly. It wasn’t at all like Nicolae wasn’t a seductive man. After that, it got worse. He could feel the force in his mind more often. More and more of his statements came from somewhere else. Whenever, he tried to explain the situation to Buck he felt stopped and trapped.

And then the incident at the UN happened. Steve tried to warn him in advance, but his body had moved of its own accord. Every time he had tried to explain or shout a warning or something, the voice in his head at hissed with pure hatred.

It said, “Shut up, faggot or I’ll erase another one of your precious memories doing…ugh.”

Though frankly, he should have been aware even before that when Buck first started asking those random questions about the End of Days. Weird hints fell out of his mouth, strange panics that weren’t his own and when he tried to include his own warnings of the UN trap, it merely mixed altogether with the rest of the crap.

In the end he lost his primary forever and even his position high atop this empty hotel, the voice and force wouldn’t even permit him to lose himself in base comforts.

To borrow from the mythology, he felt like he had sold his soul to the devil and for nothing.

So, Steve settled in with a bottle of Jack Daniels and once he reached bottom he picked up the gun and started at it. He checked the bullets and then set the simple pistol. Staring directly into that deep black opening with a weaving eye.

“Oh, my dear Mr. Plank, don’t do that,” a voice intoned lovingly before repeating himself in German and Swahili.

“Screw you, demon. You’re not going to get my mind,” Steve drunkenly slurred waving the gun at the blonde figure approaching him.

“Oh my dear Steve, what would I do with your mind? Such things are far above me. Now Steve, my dear Steve, why would you betray my trust like this? Not only would you deprive me of a Press Secretary on this momentous occasion, but you’d leave me with a large cleaning bill as well. Tsk tsk, poor form,” it intoned as it came close enough to grab the gun out of his hand while repeating himself in Portuguese and Korean.

“I…fuck.”

“My dear drunken friend. What you need is a bedtime story. Let me tell you my favorite one. It’s about a small-time Romanian politician who late one night found God.”

Nicolae repeated himself in the voice of The Deity.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 6

Verna rang the doorbell impatiently while looking once again at the list.

“How’d I miss that, Alice,” she said, mentally kicking herself that she hadn’t at all connected the Chloe that had started her whole frantic investigation into the San Francisco situation to begin with to the current case.

“Well, you did keep putting off reading the list,” Alice chided mockingly. Her good humor seemed to be slowly fading back into her. More likely, Verna thought, she was using the same energy and focus she was to try and put out of mind Mel’s hopeless situation.

“Still, it’s unprofessional.” Weak sauce, Verna thought

Alice rather agreed. “I will keep that in mind,” she responded letting the terms drip with sarcasm.

“Hello?” A young woman opened the door and straightened what looked like an apron. “I was just making dinner for my father.”

Verna balked at the statement, but forced herself on. “Are you Chloe Steele?”

“I am. I’m sorry, but how do you know my name?”

Verna shook her head. “Sorry, we’re from The Center, you called us about a week ago in a bit of distress.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t fully remember that. But it might be true, I’ve been most upset about my mom and brother. They were lucky enough to be taken by Jesus, you know. Are you from New Hope Church?”

Verna tried to unpack and parse the sentence, but was unable to. She flipped over the sheet and just began writing as much of it down as she could in pure journalistic fervor.

Alice again took over the reins Verna had once again let falter. “Forgive her, she was just worried about her. Yes, we’re definitely related to this New Hope. If you’d be a doll and tell me more about it and your father Captain Steele, that’d be great.”

Chloe’s eyes tilted, but if she suspected the brazen lie, she didn’t let on. “Oh New Hope is brilliant, it really opened my eyes. Or rather, my father’s eyes first. I’m sorry, my roast is burning, would you join me in the Kitchen?”

Verna watched as Alice followed into the kitchen as she began to investigate around the hideous suburban house. Verna was not much for judging decorations. She had always lived pretty spartan, so she never really felt like she couldn’t judge anyone else’s idea of a good home to have, but this house looked like something out of her worst nightmares. Covered in nothing but desperate kitsch and lace, it looked like what a maniacal grandma would put up to line her own prison cell. There were entire walls with more and more complex embroideries as if the creator was desperately trying to stitch back to tendrils of Cthulhu himself.

There were photos everywhere, showing off an older nervous wreck of a woman nervously twisting an ancient pearl necklace while occasionally holding a baby boy or proudly clutching a young boy with that exact type of haircut you only see on a person when they cannot choose their haircut. There was also an older man as well festooned in an airline pilot’s uniform. No wonder the military leads hadn’t panned out. There was also the woman who had opened the door. The photos of her, seemed normal for the most part, but she noticed that teenage Chloe had been a little loud, as it were.

The voice she had heard had been the same one weeping to her on the Crisis Hotline. But why then, did she not have any idea what she meant by the Center? Even worse, how did Chloe not know or respond to the rainbow pin on Verna’s baseball cap? She shuffled around more and more, looking for some form of clue. Moving upstairs she looked around first the parent’s bedroom. It was oddly septic, like a sleeping pod and there was some weird aura surrounding it. She entered briefly and looked around but she was feeling overwhelming energy to leave. She began to turn around, but caught a glimpse of something on the floor.

It was an old straight edge razor, covered in old blood. She pocketed it and then fled.

Dinosaur mobiles hung from the ceiling with little people riding them. Books like The Good Christian Science Book were strewn on the floor while posters proclaiming, “I like Jesus” were hung on all the walls. Verna scoured through the room for any additional clues, but there was little accept a small bundle of perfectly draped clothes that had recently been what looks like forcibly hugged. Verna felt the need again to immediately leave.

The final room seemed to be the right one. There were pictures of female musicians on every wall and what looked like a duffel bag. She dug through briefly, looking over the artifacts within, but they were mostly clothes. She had apparently packed light. Shrugging her shoulders, she tore around the room, but most of it was innocuous, but oddly, that creepy sort of innocuous that comes from someone desperately trying to present an innocuous room. She began feeling around wallboards and ceiling tiles and drawer bottoms, before finding Chloe’s secret stash. Magazines of Curve and old playboys likely stolen from her father.

She felt around some more, finding a discarded pair of jeans with a wallet inside, containing photos of a rather beautiful girl in a halter-top signed From Maggie with Love.

She remembered that name. The panicked girl who had called her had been frantic for any help reaching San Francisco, worried sick that she had to tell Maggie something before it was too late. Slipping the photo into her pocket, she went back downstairs, where Alice was helping sautee some potatoes.

“We were just talking all about Captain Steele. Did you know he lost a wife and son and helped bring our Chloe here to Jesus?” Alice said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Verna just nodded and grabbed Chloe by the shoulders.

“What are you doing,” Chloe responded angrily.

“I know you called us Chloe. Tell us about Maggie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just cooking dinner. My father will be home soon. Supper must be ready. A dutiful daughter,” Chloe’s eyes darted frantically to the pot roast as Verna shook her.

“Bullshit,” Verna cursed bitterly before pulling the photo out of her pocket. This Maggie, your girlfriend in the San Francisco area.”

“Liar. I’m a good Christian woman. I am pledged eternally to Buck Williams.”

Verna heard a spoon drop behind her and a voice speak up.

“What was that, dear?”

“Buck Williams. God chose him to be my lord and master as it says in the Bible. I prayed for him and then he God got him seats directly next to mine the day after I met him and I knew then I’d be with him forever and ever because I am a woman and he is a man and he bought me a cookie at an airport.”

Verna blinked trying not to let the creepy overwhelm her moral outrage. If she was going to get to the bottom of this she needed answers from those most afflicted.

“You mentioned you were scared of something. Something inside of your father made him change. Is it related to something called The Deity?”

“Jesus Christ is the way, you heathens! My father corrected me onto the path from a life hell bound for my sins. Now I can be with my mother in Heaven. She’s the greatest person of all, better than us left behind.”

Verna felt like she was close to it. Now she had to gamble.

“You tried to meet with your mother didn’t you. Tried to kill your self with this,” she pulled out the bloodstained straight edge and held it up. “But then this Jesus or maybe Captain Steele did something to you.”

“Oh, god, what is that. I never tried to kill myself. Help, help! The robbers have returned for more of Raymie’s things.”

Verna grabbed Chloe’s wrist harder and wrestled down her sleeves. “I’m afraid you can’t hide it any longer, the evidence is right…here.”

Verna looked down on perfectly unscarred wrists.

“But that doesn’t make sense.” Verna felt the aching gap fill once again, a filling of deep and abiding chaos delicately straddled as the world crumbled down inside of her. “I was onto the answer. Eliminate the impossibilities and whatever’s left no matter how improbable must be true…”

“We got to get out of here,” Alice tugged frantically at Verna’s plain sleeves with absolute terror. “I have a really bad feeling.”

“But-“

“We need to get out of here now.” Alice wasn’t usually inclined to throw weight around, but Verna wasn’t the most butch of dykes to begin with. Without much commotion she found herself dragged along hopping on one foot before gaining a running speed as Alice frantically searched around for an empty house to throw them into and lock the door.

“I think we’re safe now,” Alice muttered, keeping low from the windows and still trembling all over.

“Why did you-“ Verna began, the chaos still shattering her careful faith in order and control.

“I felt it Verna. Again. I think it might have been The Deity,” Alice collapsed against the floor and began to cry. “God, it’s not really over. It’s not actually going to let things become normal again.”

“Alice, what’s going on?” Verna tried to rally desperately.

“The Event, I think I know what caused it and I think it’s somehow fixated on Buck and Captain Steele and maybe that weirdly popular Carpathia guy.”

“So…” Verna violently shook her mind for the core of her essence. Once found, she grasped it tight and fell.

“What do we do, Verna?” Alice continued sobbing into her pretty dress.

“We’re reporters, Alice,” Verna said quietly. “We investigate.”

“It’s probably watching the house now.”

“Then we find another source,” Verna said, pulling up her distraught friend. Now let’s get back to civilization.”

Back at the Steele residence, Chloe Steele cried and prayed as The Deity circled around gazing her this way and that.

“What is it my puppet?” It hissed into the air.

“There were heathens here and they were saying the most horrible things,” Chloe responded, weeping openly. “And then you came and made them stop.”

The Deity chuckled. The new Chloe was so much better than that old insolent whelp. It smiled deeply and then replied in a voice full of what it considered love.

“Well sound the alarm if they come back, the Godless must be punished.”

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 5

Verna looked down the list of callers and questionable cases and then knocked on the door, waiting for an answer. She looked up and down the street, which was literally dead quiet with the dread anti-energy of suburban sprawl. It may have once spawned brief sporadic flashes, but the kids were long since gone. She looked around to a neighbor’s lawn where children’s toys still littered the lawn.

Verna felt the all-familiar ache that it didn’t hurt as much as it should. It was practically reflex at this point, perhaps some distant Jewish trait that always made her extra hard on herself no matter what.

“Why don’t you add highlights to your hair,” Alice asked adjusting her far more lacy and impractical home outfit covered in an odd mixture of zippers, chains, and black lace. Verna stopped in wonderment at the question and turned.

“Huh?”

“Well, I mean you’ve got the whole sport dyke thing going on with the cap and ponytail, but I mean, it’s awfully subtle. I mean, no wonder, you haven’t had a date in five-“

“Four”

“Years, so yeah.”

“I’ve been busy…”

“Right.”

Verna paused in mid-awkward stance and grabbed herself by the mind and focused away the weakness. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Alice seemed taken-aback for a second and then rallied. “The silence was getting to me. It’s kind of triggering. The apartment next to mine had a loud baby you know and…”

Verna nodded along. “In that case, I like the natural look, now if you don’t have any-“

“How are you two doing?”

With a startled movement, she looked back nervously towards the door which remained imposingly shut.

“Over here, darling.”

Verna turned to the neighboring yard where there stood what would have been a young blonde throwback from the 50s wearing high-heeled shoes and stockings if not for the single orange and green bracer around her left arm, stepping her way gingerly through the toys in the yard.

“Ah, hello, miss. Are you er....” Verna glanced down at the sheet of paper before continuing, “Mel?”

“Oh dear me gracious no, I don’t know anyone named Mel. I just came out here to do a little shopping for my husband, he’s so needy, sometimes.”

“Uh…”

“So are you some sort of charitable group or something?”

“Yes, actually…I’m sorry, but are you ok?”

“Why of course I am, why ever would you ask?”

“Well you didn’t seem…er…your lawn is…er…Aren’t those a little problematic,” Verna finally spit out pointing to the scattered children’s toys and expecting the worst.

She wasn’t prepared.

“Oh lord, we got lucky there, Captain Steele had all of his son’s toys stolen, bless his heart. He lost his wife and son you know, terrible tragedy.”

“I…bah…gah.” Verna babbled, unable to even muster any response to her self. She had been kicking herself for three weeks for not feeling enough and here was a woman, seemingly unaware of what had happened.

“Wait, didn’t you also lose kids,” Alice stepped in and finished.

The woman’s face went completely blank.

“Captain Steele lost his son and wife. I need to make my husband dinner and there’s only so much time. By the way, have you accepted Jesus Christ?” The woman continued with no apparent recognition of the conversation before. With that, she walked to her car and began driving away, while Verna stared dumbfounded and shaken.

After the car had disappeared a meek voice sounded behind her.

“Can I help you?”

#

Verna turned around slowly to see a meek teenager with pigtails and a long shirt. Their face and legs clean-shaven, but their chest overly flat.

“Er, are you Mel Cooper?” Verna enquired. “Did you call into The Center for help?”

“I did…” The teenager seemed to be clinging to the half-closed door as a protecting barrier or dear friend.

“Well I’m Verna Zee and this is my friend Alice and we wanted to follow up with you and make sure you were doing alright.” Verna said, moving her expressions into ones of professional empathy.

“I’m fine, really. I don’t hear the voice when I stay in the house and I’ve learned how to run to the store when it’s not looking.”

“Wait, when what’s not looking?”

“The Deity.”

“Wait, what?” Verna was taken aback slightly. If what she was saying was true, then that meant the Rapture theory did have the most validity, but then again, that just raised many more questions.

“The Deity. If I go out when it’s looking, it goes into my head and it starts yelling at me, calling me a freak, trying to change things. But if I’m quick then it’s okay. I’m more worried about my girlfriend and boyfriend.”

“Er…”

“I haven’t seen them in a week and I’m worried that the Deity may have gotten them.”

“Well what did they look like?” Alice asked kindly cutting in.

“Don’t press her Alice, can’t you see she’s scared?”

“I’m not a she.”

Verna kicked herself. How inappropriate she’d been. “I’m terribly sorry, young man.”

“Not man.”

Verna froze. “Alice, pronoun help.”

Alice shook her head and leaned in. “What pronoun do you use?”

“Ze.”

“Genderqueer?”

“Agendered.”

“Well I’m a transwoman myself, so bisexual?”

“Asexual, but my boyfriend and girlfriend are cool with it.” The teen clutched the door less and seemed to let it swing. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude.”

“That’s ok, from your call, you sounded like you were having some real troubles. Can you describe your boyfriend and girlfriend to me?”

“Well he’s kind of gangly with bright pink hair and she’s got long blonde hair and looks kind of plain, but they’ve both got these orange and green bracers I made for them. Or rather one each…”

Verna felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, but tried to rally herself. “We’ll go looking for them immediately. On another note, your neighbor was acting rather odd a minute ago-“

“I don’t have any neighbors.”

“Wait, what?”

“They disappeared with my parents.”

“But what about the woman who just drove away?”

“I didn’t see it…er…you are going to help me, right?”

“Of course, sweetie,” Alice chimed in and stepping forward. “Now, I’m going to stay here and you can tell me some more about what they look like. And my partner will-“

“Be right with you. I just want to look into something real quick. You won’t mind will you?” Verna finished.

“I’m not five, you both do realize that, right? I’m just nervous.”

“Right,” Verna said distractedly before heading back down the path.

“Ignore her,” Alice said behind her while entering the house. “Now do you have any photos or any other clues that can help us know where to start looking…”

The conversation continued, but Verna was already out of earshot. She looked back to make sure the door was closed and then ran over to the neighboring house, briefly tripping over the discarded reminders of Earth that was. She knocked on the door hoping desperately to be wrong about her hunch, but even before the door opened, she knew it was a vain hope.

The “husband” opened the door. A young teenager in an older man’s suit with short pink hair whose blonde roots were already growing briefly up to replace them and around his right wrist, the same orange and green bracer she had seen on the other girl. And at that point, the makeup had preventing her from noticing that she seemed teenish in body as well.

“Do you know a Mel Cooper?”

The man answered in a chirpy happy voice. “No, I’ve never heard that name before.”

“Do you know a Captain Steele?”

“He lost his wife and son you know, it was very tragic.”

“Did you lose any parents?”

“Captain Steele lost his wife and son.”

“I see. Do you know where he lives?”

“Captain Steele lost his-“

“I’m sorry to have bothered you.

“Have you seen my wife? She needs to make me dinner.”

“I’m sure she’ll be home soon.”

The walk back around to Mel’s was achingly slow and painful and the deep gulf in Verna’s heart was once again threatening to swamp all the progress she had made earlier. She tried the doorknob of Mel’s place entering in and closing the door and breathing a deep painful sigh.

“Did you find anything,” Mel muttered apologetically, trying to hide a pan he had briefly before prepared to swing at the seeming intruder.

“Is that your parents’?” Verna asked, her heart too hardened to really mind the assault she narrowly avoided.

“It’s Marc’s. Your friend is up in Marc and Erin’s sex room. Well, my parent’s bedroom really, but they’re dead and gone now. Bastards.”

“Right.” Verna said before heading up the stairs. Up at the top, she found Alice sitting in the door-frame. “Did you find anything,” Verna asked.

“There was this in the bed sheets, I don’t think Mel found it.” Alice held up a handful of what looked like some form of prescription drug. “There was also a letter that had fallen under the dresser. It was a suicide note.”

“But they’re both playing Stepford Couple next door.”

“Both?”

“Both.”

“What do we do, Verna,” Alice curled up tighter, clutching the note to her leg so that it crumpled. Verna knew enough of Alice’s history to guess. When she had been a young boy, her first boyfriend had dispatched himself in a similar way. Verna knew she needed to get them out of here.

“Let’s go.” Verna said, wrenching her to her feet and taking the letter from Alice’s hand and shoving it in her own pocket.

“Wait, but-“

“Mel, we’re both going to put out some queries to some friends of ours and they’ll keep an eye out. If you need anything or are scared that the Deity is coming after you, this is my personal cell phone number and I will answer it any time, day or night. Got it?”

“Ok.”

“I don’t feel right-“ Alice began before Verna dragged her out of the house.

“She’s very helpful minded. But we have a few more places we need to hit. Have you heard of a Captain Steele?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m not really that helpful, I guess.”

“Quite all right.” Verna stated, the careful practiced calm face, approaching a level of cracking. She shook Mel’s hand and prepared to move away, before Mel immediately hugged her.

“Thank you so much,” ze stated, while Verna nervously twitched. “You be careful of the Deity now. If you feel Him at all, you need to pretend to be as normal as possible and find shelter. You need to do that.”

“Ok, I will kid. Listen, anytime, really.”

The hug tightened and then released. Verna was outside the door that was now closing.

“Thank you” was the only reply as the door closed firmly shut on the outside world.

“Was that a good idea, V-“ Alice began.

“We still don’t know what happened. But we don’t want hir to repeat anything of the sort.”

“I guess,” Alice replied tentatively.

“I just wish I could have gotten a lead on this Captain Steele fellow. Sigh, what’s the next name.”

Verna stopped and looked behind her where Alice was staring shaking into a sheet of paper. Verna sighed. It had been a bad idea to involve her at that level. She was a great shoulder to lean on, but the scene had obviously triggered some bad memories amidst the confusion.

“Verna,” she spoke softly.

Verna reached an arm around her back and held her awkwardly to herself. “It’s going to be ok, you’ll-“

“No, Verna, look.” And with that Alice pointed down to the next name on the list, one Chloe Steele.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 4

(Author’s Note: Not owning the book, I’m unsure about whether this scene was supposed to go before or after the Verna scene. It’s probably before, but since the potential is far more interesting if the answer is after, I’m going to pretend that Fred’s recap order is auto-magically the real one. Yay, ignorance!)

Alice leaned against the door struggling to hear the conversation between Verna and Buck. There wasn’t much to make out. There was a banter about names and then a lot of silence. Suddenly, she heard marching and quickly ran back to her seat at her desk and pretended to shuffle papers.

Buck came out self-consciously. Looking out over the crowd of workers very clearly staring and smiling at him as a few suppressed a brief urge to laugh. Alice herself smiled to see it as it meant that however briefly it was almost ok to laugh again. And then she leaned back in her chair to check out Buck’s well-toned butt in his tight business pants. Alice raised an eyebrow in approval and then recomposed herself. It was rude to stare, but sometimes, how could one resist?

She glanced up at his face and grew momentarily worried. There seemed to be a storm brewing on his face. Alice wondered whether or not Verna was too harsh on him or called him to the carpet about the last story. Verna tried to put on a brave face, but Alice knew that she hadn’t yet let out any of the anger over how that went down. Well, she could always try to cheer him up a little.

Buck’s facial features seemed to shift into something less obviously angry or hurt as he turned and winked at her. Alice felt herself giggle at the attention and felt her hand nervously go to her choker, before rerouting it to her short spiked hair. The ruffles on her shirt would hopefully distract him enough to have hidden the faux pas.

“Your boss says I need an appointment to get settled in. Can you take care of that for me?”

Alice felt herself blushing as she looked at his dapper, nerdy charm, and completely to die for earlobes. Not nearly as butch as her normal type, but still, enough to make her blush for sure.

“Sure Mr. Williams, one second.”

He leaned closer letting her get a whiff of his cologne. It was overly strong, the sort of mistake a casual beginner or teenager would make, but the cuteness of the attempt and his awkward attempt to flirt were making her flashback to her days as a little boy watching Xander on Buffy.

“You can call me Buck,” he whispered into her ear. There was something odd about the statement, but she couldn’t quite place it. Something just seemed slightly off, seemingly demanding maybe. She wasn’t quite sure, but still the experience was still rather pleasurable and besides she could see down his shirt slightly to see that it was well shaven and had that definite metrosexual quality.

“Thanks,” she muttered back nervously, before indicating the empty chair beside her desk.

Buck sat in the chair oddly, a sort of parody of masculinity and there was a quality of her eyes that seemed to make her laugh nervously. She worried that the laughter might offend him, but as much as she waited, he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he began to flirt back with her, seemingly well adjusted to the post-Event world.

Alice’s immense attraction to that fact was a great relaxant and she felt more eased into the conversation, though she did find herself occasionally troubled by the forcefulness of the flirtation. It wasn’t the casual fun or even highly suggestive flirting that she greatly enjoyed, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what exactly seemed off. She couldn’t stop nervously giggling after most lines, even if they were intensely cheesy and ludicrous.

“So how do you like working with the greatest investigative reporter of all time? Think I can shape these mmm, heh heh, boys into something fitting this place.” Buck stated while his sexily gangly arms betrayed his own immaturity.

Again, it was a rather pathetic self-indictment in its seriousness, but worse, it seemed overly off, seemingly fighting in its own structure. She looked up into his eyes again after long avoiding it and was struck dumb and dry by what she saw.

Sheer terror.

A shake and it returned, an angrier predatory core that seemed to bore into her mind. Alice became mute, laughing incredibly nervously as she saw the eyes bore deep and something else creep along absent-mindedly alongside.

“Yup, good. Young whore. Slut.”

“What did you say?” Alice jerked up abruptly finalizing the conversation.

“I didn’t say anything,” his eyes while still with the previous sheen, seemed genuinely puzzled and hurt, so much so, that she balked at the outburst.

“I thought I-“ Alice began, nervously clutching her choker with both hands before composing herself.

“I’m sorry, I must be going. My new apartment has already installed phones, you see, and I’ve hardly had time to make good use of them. It was a pleasure meeting you my dear.”

With that he walked out, blithely whistling to himself as his colleagues continued to stare.

“What a mess, eh?” Verna responded from behind her, causing her to spin around in a panic.

“Don’t do that,” Alice hissed back.

“I would say the same thing. Again, also gay.”

“He could be bi,” Alice said briefly clinging to the most unlikely rumor about Buck’s orientation, though she already knew that one of the aspects most troubling about his recent behavior was how badly it was attempting to compensate or prove something. Alice cursed her aching sex drive that she wasn’t able to note it sooner.

“Besides, there’s something off about him, something dangerous that reminds me of something.”

“Latresha the bodybuilder,” Alice asked, unable to resist the opening to tease Verna about one of her more amusing and as usual completely un-acted upon crushes. Already in response, she could see Verna’s ears glow red.

“N-no. Not exactly, but make sure you put on your sensible shoes tonight. We’re going to-“

With that Tiny entered in with a sorely bruised Chen Yao in his arms and a police officer’s badge in his teeth.

“I, er, we, uh, help?” Tiny garbled as he set Yao down gently. “I wasn’t her able to stop the guy bringing him, but I did, er, get his badge.”

Verna turned to Alice and continued, “Or rather back to work.”

With that she ran on to the trials of the rest of the day while Alice pre-checked off another two likely DBs.

“I, er…don’t know if.”

One down. Efficiency makes a good secretary.

Does God Have Plans for Verna? Part 3

“Yes, ok, sure. But where exactly is Mr. Chen? What was that, you haven’t seen any chinks lately? I see. Mr. Wallace, was that? I have it on good authority that it is indeed your offshoot that has him in Detention. Well, I see. Well, if it’s a mistake, I’d be glad to come personally to rectify it. Of course to make it over the Barricade Region, I’ll have to hire some Party People and I’m betting they’d love a more specific face to who’s protesting the food efforts as would our readers. At this point, we could sell it to the local papers as the top human-interest story. What? You say he’s already been released, but he was roughed up by one of the Broken? I’m sure, that’s absolutely true. But do make sure he makes it back here safely and quickly as I wouldn’t want to have to jump the gun and do something I might regret. Yes, lovely command of the English language, talk to you later, bye bye.”

Verna hung up the phone and began to stretch her arms. As far as she could tell, this story hadn’t even fully broken locally and taking the long term had finally traced most of it out. Communications from Atlanta and D.C. have confirmed similar structural stories, so with some polishing, Chen could be seeing his first cover story for the next Global Weekly. Well assuming Carpathia didn’t really try and follow through with his Global Czar idea. Well, they could sell the story to the local papers as well. Front-page credit was always a reward unto itself. Even these days. Maybe especially these days, as anything that could knock the ever-present Event stories below the fold was a prize unto itself as well as a welcome distraction.

She let herself dwell on the scene. The normalcy and the feeling of peace that seemed less fought against. Perhaps, Alice was right and even after all this, some uneasy normal could be regained and strength would breed more strength. Solving the little problems, the small fry, seemed to make the Big Things less scary. They were bigger, The Event was still a mystery, but all mysteries could be solved and all it takes is finding the right source.

For the first time in three weeks, she was allowing herself to feel good and the novelty of it alone was exhilarating.

Then the door swung open.

“Alice, what is it?”

“He’s here.”

“Who-“ Verna began but knew who she was talking about. “But it’s not Monday,” she protested feebly hating herself once again for that seeming slip of weakness and then again for caring. So much for the good mood, she thought bitterly.

“Yeah,” Alice began to shift to leave quickly again.

“Wait. Close the door first.”

“I should be getting back.”

“That’s fresh makeup. All of it. What happened?”

Alice tried a smile, “I just wanted a new look.”

“The doctor called back didn’t he?”

“They’re overbooked in the hospitals. ‘Elective’ surgeries are on hold. It’s ok, I’ll just keep looking. Besides, what’s a few more years’ wait, really?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Alice laughed. “That’s a silly thing to say. You’re not responsible.”

Verna stood stock still for a second as Alice began to laugh more and more out loud.

Alice continued. “Oh, I needed that. I’ll send in Cameron. Oh, also on the Agenda, Tiny is getting stitches from a Broken who tried to attack him with a broken bottle for apparently stealing his kids for the Government. That and The Center wants us to try and look into some of the people on the list after we finish up here.”

“Right,” Verna responded, re-entering her stoicism. Hmm, perhaps there would be an excuse to look into a few other things. Hadn’t some of the names been in the suburb where people were talking about Captain Steele? Her journalistic sense became piqued as she began to return to her desk and wrote herself a handful of notes.

“I said, good morning.”

Verna shook herself and looked at the clock, which read 2:35. She nodded carefully. “Cameron, I didn’t expect you till Monday.” It was a true statement. Cameron “Buck” Williams was a “maverick” and his favorite way of demonstrating that was to constantly procrastinate and never put forth more than the set amount of hours. If he wasn’t Steve’s personal escort as it were, he would probably have been demoted or fired long ago.

“Just checking in,” Buck said smoothing his hair and…striking a minor pose, a rather metrosexual pose at that. Verna found herself literally stunned into silence for a moment. “You can call me Buck”.

Verna looked down onto her desk where the last issue of Global Weekly sat still seemingly hot off the presses as Distribution was yesterday. In it, the cover article she had written going into the global issues and fallout that would occur if Carpathia’s UN plans were actually implemented as well as a brief coverage of the shooting incident itself. It had been a joint project between her and a number of the International Branches that she had to put together and finish once it became clear that Cameron hadn’t even bothered to show up for his scheduled interview with the newest wanna-be dictator. She had finished about 12 minutes before final printing after literally three full days not leaving the office or sleeping and in which one of her other story’s main leads ended up shooting himself, setting her back probably a month on that hook. For all that work, she could see it as cover story, what would have been her first under the byline: Cameron Williams, Senior Writer.

“I’ll call you Cameron, if you don’t mind, and-“

“I do mind,” Buck responded, his voice quivering in full pout. He puffed up his chest and tried to look important or threatening, but Verna was looking at the headline and felt herself struggle once more.

It was a stupid thing, meaningless, trivial crap that she had long become accustomed too. It wasn’t even like that was the first make-up story she had written for him. His famous “Disappearance” story had been written a week earlier by herself as well as his follow up working off his source material of “God did it” in full. She had been the one again pulling his slack and actually interviewing the subjects and figuring out what all the theories were and which had already been debunked. In short, she had been running three jobs for the dim-minded queen in front of her.

In light of everything, it shouldn’t have bothered her. Who cared? What were three jobs at work, when she had volunteered for even more off duty. Her life had more or less had always been devoted to covering slackers for the good of the craft. It’s more or less how she scrabbled each slow step up the ladder, how she kept her lovely eye of the hurricane from giving into the chaos that surrounded them.

But at the same time, here he was, chastised, found out, a source of enormous scandal at Head Office, free from his previous protection with the flight of Steve Plank to greener pastures. And directly believing that she of all the people in the world would show him deference at this point. It was petty, but it was hard to resist the control over the pettiness and the shame it spawned. How dare he try to force his stupid self-given nickname on her, one entirely based on his lazy disregard for the good of the craft? If the center was to hold, if the Chicago Branch was going to keep afloat Head Office, then this shit would not stand on her watch.

Buck continued obliviously. “Please call-“

“Then I’ll call you Cameron, even if you do mind.”

There was a moment of regret. She saw his face begin to tear up with this blow. Oh god, she thought, he was using his ego to keep from floating under the weight of the times. That was what was keeping him afloat. She wondered whether she should apologize, then kicked herself for the weakness in thinking that. Even if it was true, she needed to shake him up. A deliberately deluded person was not only a bad worker, but more likely to trigger DBs. Heck, a DB was practically a rite of passage for the brave remainder. One proved their mettle by returning. Paralyzed, she did nothing, while Buck recovered with the oddest of shakes.

“Help me,” he whispered, before shaking again.

Verna was struck by his eyes, first and foremost. Had they always been like that, or was it new? She couldn’t quite access enough of her memory, but she knew that they stuck out greatly from the terrified pleading eyes of only a moment before as well as the sick quiver that preceded the change.

The eyes were that of a predator, or rather more, the cool calm focus of intense blind hate, seething almost preternaturally from some outside force. She quietly moved her heavier desk objects closer to herself and stood up to her full rather unimpressive stature.

“I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment, but if you would be so kind as to make an appointment with my secretary for a time we can settle you in, that would be great. Now, I have to check up on one of the other reporters, so if you’ll excuse me…” She motioned her arms for Buck to leave, but he seemed unwilling. He almost seemed motionless as if stuck in some form of static point, but for the quiver and the eyes of hate, she would have assumed it so. “And do give my regards to Steve when you next see him.”

There seemed to be a twinge of self-disgust on his face and then a different veneer, similarly predatory, but now once again filled with the rampant ego of earlier on.

“Jealous, you’re all jealous, whore,” Buck muttered before marching himself out. “You’re all whores.”

With a sigh of relief she closed the door afterwards and felt a shake of fear she hadn’t felt since…a memory she didn’t want to face right now. Verna shook herself violently before breathing heavily back into her professional headspace.

There was a moment of full personality change there. If the reports and the rumors of Buck’s greater than normal ego behaviors were true, then there was something, alien or otherwise, going on.

She returned back to work, picking up the phone and redialing the last number, trying desperately to ignore what Buck had said during the shudders.

She had enough jobs after all. Including his.