Harvest of Souls, Chapter Four

Weeping in Ramah

One of the Secret Service agents moved to answer the phone.

“No! Honey, could you get that please,” Richard said, keeping his gun held steady in the face of the chief of his Secret Service detail. “Back away from the phone, pal!” The other agent did as ordered.

“Hello?” Beth said. “General!” she said, then cupped a hand over the receiver. “It’s General Lind,” she said to her husband. “What’s happening, General? I’m sorry, we have...a situation here, he can’t come to the phone. Yes he’s still here,” she said with a little quake in her voice. “I need you to tell me what’s going on.” As she listened, Beth’s face grew ever more fearful. “Excuse me a moment, General.” She covered the receiver with her hand again.

“Honey...he says it’s happening everywhere…disappearances...not just here...our troops.... One of you, turn on CNN!” An agent slowly crossed the living room to the large high-definition home theater system that took up most of a wall. Careful to make no sudden moves, he turned it on.

“...from all over the world,” Christiane Amanpour said in her delicate accent. “Children…missing from their beds.” Her voice cracked, tears welling in her eyes. “Babies gone from their cribs. Entire elementary schools...suddenly emptied.” Her face was inset against a montage of handheld camera shots.

An Iranian woman in a black dress and hijab pressing a little shirt to her chest, her face aimed at the heavens wailing silently in pure anguish. A shaky, low-quality cell-phone video of small desks in neat rows. Piles of clothes in each chair, pant legs drooping down to empty shoes. A husband and wife in London bawling in each other’s arms, collapsed next to a stroller.

“The...Event appears to be limited to...to pre-teen children. My own son…Darius John Rubin...is among the missing.” A tear broke free and ran down her cheek, trailed down her jawline and dripped from her chin unnoticed. “If you still have your children...hold them. Hold them.” She failed to suppress a hitching sob.

“A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning. Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted...because they are no more. They are no more.” Christiane turned away from the camera and buried her face in her hands just as CNN cut back to the studio.

An immaculately pretty young anchorwoman sat alone behind the expansive, sweeping glass-and-brushed-nickel desk, like a captain going down with her ship. She stared helplessly into the camera for long seconds, her perfect cupid’s-bow lips parted, but unable to speak.

“That’s enough, turn it off,” Deming said, lowering his weapon with shaking hands. “...Sorry.” It was the Secret Service agents’ turn to look shaken. “Go on, call home. I need to talk to the General anyway. There might not be a location secure enough to protect us against this.” He went to the phone and Beth handed him the receiver.

“General, this is Deming.” Probably President Deming, he thought, feeling it hit him like a tsunami. Mike and his whole family, gone...plane crashes...oh God no!

“Sir, the news reports are saying it’s only children, but that’s not true," General Lind said. "It hit our forces too. Hard. Casualty rates in some units may be at fifty percent, or more. We’ve been hit in all theaters of operation. So far as I can tell, the Air Force has been hardest hit, especially among officers and pilots, followed by the Marines and the Army. The Navy is in the best shape, and their command structure is mostly intact.”

“Is it the Christians, General? I mean, the conservative, fundamentalist Christians. Protestants.”

“Mr. Vice President, we don’t even know who’s missing, or exactly how many. I couldn’t begin to tell you what their beliefs were. Right now it’s all I can do to try to find out what forces we still have. Except for Admiral Fallon, I haven’t been able to get a hold of the other Joint Chiefs.

“What about the people in your command? Are the people missing the ones who went to Christian Embassy prayer breakfasts?” The silence on the other end seemed to confirm Deming’s worst fears.

“It seems that way sir...but right now my concern is the men and women who are still here. It’s not on the news yet, but there’s rioting in Baghdad and Basra, and attacks on our troops and installations are on the rise. They’re blaming us. Al-Sistani has called for order and a day of fasting and repentance, but Sadr is blaming us. He’s on radio and the ‘net saying we used a new weapon to exterminate Iraq’s children.

“We’re able to defend our bases at the moment because the so far the attacks are small-scale and disorganized. That’s going to change, and when it does we’re going to be cut off from re-supply, and frankly, I think we’ll be overrun. AfPak is the same situation, or worse. I’m requesting permission to evacuate our troops as soon as possible. If we can get moving before the Iraqis strike in force, I think there’s a chance we’ll be able to get the bulk of our remaining forces out intact, but it won’t be easy.”

“Mexico?”

“General Trujillo is going to be asking us for more troops, not less, especially if his forces have been hit as hard as ours. But if every child in Mexico has disappeared...sir, I don’t think his government will last the day. I recommend we pull back to the border and do our best to fortify and maintain order. To be frank sir, I’m not sure we’ll be able to do that much. Do you have any contact with National Command Authority?”

“So far as I know, General, I am National Command Authority. The Secret Service tells me that President Huckabee and his family are among the missing. Do what you have to do, General. Get as many of our people out of the Middle East as you can. I think we’re going to need them here at home.”

“Do you want me to put our strategic forces on alert, sir?”

“No. Not until we can do it in concert with Russia, China, and our NATO allies. In fact, I want you to shut off our missile-defense radars in Europe and Alaska, and pull back any subs we have patrolling near Russian or Chinese waters. I want them to know we’re not behind this, and we’re not planning on exploiting it to harm their national interests.”

"Sir, are you sure you want to have those radars off?"

"They didn't warn us about this. General, you know as well as I do that our 'missile defense' systems don't work for anything but Raytheon's stock price, and poking a stick at the Russians and Chinese. If they're thinking we might be behind this somehow, and wondering if they ought to launch, I want to give them something they can see that says we're not."

“Yes sir.”

“I have to go now, General. I’ll get in contact with you as soon as possible. Until otherwise directed, you have overall operational command of U.S. military forces.”

“Yes sir.” The phone slipped from Deming’s fingers to rattle in its cradle.

“My God...the whole world is going to fall apart...” Deming said. The chief of Deming’s Secret Service detail snapped his cell phone closed, his face pale.

“Sir, we have to move...”

“Take me to the White House.”

“We can’t go there sir, whoever did this knew to hit us there.”

“Then take me to the National Military Command Center, I need to get on the Hotline to the Russians.”

“Yes...Mr. President.”

No Hope

Chaim sat in the yacht clubs restaurant, he waited for Buck, quietly counting the seconds, trying very hard to appear at ease in this room. He smelled the perfume and cologne, saw the looks of smug self satisfaction around him, he sat and tried not to gag. His thoughts kept drifting back to when the formula came to being. He had wanted very badly to make things better in the world, to offer people something that could give them hope. If there was enough food they could offer it to help other nations perhaps even find something close to a peace that wasn't a result of mutual fear in the land he called his home. Maybe if there was enough usable land there could have been peace, maybe if there was something they could offer the world his nation would be remembered in history as something great, and, he admitted that he enjoyed the idea of immortality that would come from creating a horn of plenty for mankind to hold. He remembered then the odd dreams, strange images, feeling something...wrong was the best word for it. He remembered making inches of progress, then huge stumbling blocks the soil became infertile, plants dies something always seemed to go wrong. Then...then he appeared. He wasn't sure who the man was but he seemed to know a lot about the project, about him.

He remembered the two of them talking, whoever this man was he knew that the formula kept hitting walls, he offered Chaim the ability to finish the formula, to make it work beyond his wildest dreams. Chaim remembered the conversation that followed, or at least remembered words were spoken but not much else. He went to the labs and suddenly ideas flowed, connections were made that had never even been imagined before, the formula went from a vague pipe dream to a sudden reality in what seemed impossible. The thoughts and connections flowed with a speed and ability that sometimes startled him, looking back he had to admit his own surprise at what he seemed to realize or remember. Then his government decided to focus more on selling food to the rest of the world, it became rich but it also angered the other nations of the world.

Then the event, he remembered Carpathia, the man had been so charming, so charismatic and capable. They had spoken a few times, but it was recently that he began to feel a true fear. Carpathia had spoken with him about the formula, he had first felt relief, Carpathia was going to give it to everyone in this world, after the event and all that followed it people might have something to inspire them again or at least something that offered them some sort of stability. But then...something still felt off he wasn't sure why but something in his mind felt off but he wasn't sure what it was. Carpathia had spoken to him about it and when he mentioned how it would help to consolidate power and what it would mean for the government. He tried to speak to Carpathia saying that such actions are what caused others to want to destroy his own nation, then he saw Carpathia offer a smile and just say that Chaim needed to remember what he had promised. Chaim remembered that conversation that came again, and a moment of realization and fear nearly broke him.

His thoughts went back to the club, he saw the people there, drinking fine wine and eating fine food even as so many were in peril. He saw a room full of cold nothings, he felt as if the whole of the club was full of whores. High class whores, well dressed whores, but in the end these people made their money exploiting developing nations or simply inherited from their families and saw such money as a birthright the pain and suffering others didn't matter a bit to them. He then sighed bitterly, knowing that he was likely a whore of this new government and beliefs he was letting them use his formula to help tighten their grip he kept trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing but he knew that he was as much a whore as any of those here. He had some vague hope, rumors were that Buck was wanted for something perhaps...perhaps Buck knew someone, something, anything of value. Maybe even something that would let him break free of his fear. He had managed to convince Carpathia to make him the one to meet with Buck, and speaking of him, there he was now.

They spoke and exchanged pleasantries...or as close as they could get. Buck seemed more irritated that Carpathia wasn't there. When he asked where Buck was during the meeting, hoping that perhaps Buck remembered something he didn't, that perhaps it would help him get a better grip on the world that he couldn't seem to hold. Instead Buck just asked rhetorically where any of them were, this worried him more, though he kept a happy mask up, mentioning the potential of the formula he was met only with incredulity and fear of the first world nations losing their alleged birthright, sounding far too much like those around them in this smothering club. He had heard some rumors that Buck was part of some new movement, but then he had a moment of great dread and he understood. Carpathia had sent him to meet Buck to dash his hopes, no one who followed a belief of good and virtue would reject helping the needy for fear of no longer being a superpower, no longer holding great wealth and resources. Instead, there was no hope, no great new way. The world would continue on as it had, those who had would want more and those who had not would merely have to grasp at crumbs. He kept a happy face and jovial tone, and all the while he felt his spirit die slowly.

Act of Rebellion

(or Why you shouldn't shoot him)

For a few moments after Hattie left the room there was silence. Buck used these moments to remind himself that the most evil man in history was sitting in front of him and push all doubt from his mind. Then, as quickly as he could, Buck pulled out his gun and shot Nicolae.

Buck didn't fully understand what had happened. Everything had gone according to plan. That couldn't be right. The plan was to kill Nicolae. The plan seemed to have succeeded. Something was wrong here. Nicolae's body was slumped forward on the desk, a pool of blood expanding around it. How the hell was this possible?

The gun was getting heavy in his hand.

He hadn't prepared himself for this. He'd prepared himself for a painful death. He'd prepared himself for martyrdom. He'd prepared himself for inevitable failure. But this ... he didn't even have an escape plan.

"Have to say, I did Not See That Coming."

Buck spun to face the voice, the gun leading the way. There was a blonde man in white clothing sitting in a chair Buck was sure hadn't been there a moment ago, his feet propped up on another chair.

"Do you realize that by pulling that trigger you have derailed a plan the universe has been following since the moment of creation?"

Buck's brain unfroze long enough for him to ask, "Who the hell are you?" and shake the gun to show he deserved an answer. The man made a quick gesture, and the clip fell out of Bucks gun.

"You still have one in the chamber, of course, but I wouldn't recommend pulling the trigger," the man said calmly. Buck started to shake slightly. "Buck, Buck, Buck ... I don't want to hurt you. The truth is I'd be clapping right now if I didn't think the sound of a single person clapping sounded more like sarcasm than praise.

"It is true that you've screwed up my plans, but you also screwed up His plans. For that all your trespasses against me are forgiven. Besides, I'm so curious." The man took his feet off the chair and placed them on the ground. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, intertwined his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. "Now that you're in open rebellion against God, what is it you're planning on doing next?"

The man's posture reminded Buck of something, but at the moment his brain wasn't up to the task of correlating it to how Nicolae had been sitting a few minutes earlier. Most of Buck's thought process was devoted to the possibility he'd just screwed up God's plan. So far all it had managed was something along the lines of, "What! What?" He had stopped shaking, but he hardly noticed.

When Buck didn't answer the man sat up straight and asked, "You don't have a plan?" Buck was motionless. "Improvisation is nice, but I think we should have some sort of plan. What to do now that we don't have an Antichrist, that sort of thing." Buck made no response. "Until then, I think we should keep the other side off balance. So, my first thought is that we make Bruce Barnes the head of the One World Religion and allow him to run it as he sees fit." Buck remained completely still. "We'll need a new UN Secretary General, you can have the job if you want it.

"I have to say, I had you figured wrong. I thought you were a shallow narcissist who got by on an undeserved reputation without actually doing anything but this," he stood and gestured to Nicolae's corpse, "was brilliant. To knock God's plans off track with a simple," he gestured as if pulling the trigger of a gun, and made a noise that sounded entirely unlike a gunshot, "is simply brilliant.

"All my plans have to be scrapped, but the truth is I'm loving this. It's as if infinite possibilities have suddenly opened up before me. I haven't felt so alive in thousands of years." The man spontaneously hugged Buck, and Buck was dimly aware that feathered wings briefly surrounded him. Then Buck was released and found himself eye to eye with the man, "I've got a lot of work to do, but I'll be available any time for my new partner. So if you need anything, anything at all, you just call out and I'll be at your side."

The man disappeared, leaving Buck alone, his arm still extended, gun still pointed at the man's empty chair.

At long last pieces started to fall into place in Buck's mind. The man wasn't a man at all. He was Lucifer. Buck's actions had derailed God's plans. Lucifer seemed quite happy with this. He had hugged Buck. God was probably not very happy. Buck had known God's plan, gone against it, and succeeded. Did that mean he wasn't going to Heaven now? Bruce had said that once you were saved you were saved, but Bruce had said that Nicolae couldn't be killed yet.

Good God, Buck thought, Lucifer hugged me.

For a moment he thought nothing at all, then he thought the same thing in a very different way. Lucifer had hugged him. Lucifer. Not that long ago Buck had been a name dropper, impressed by his own ability to say, "I met him," "She and I had lunch the other day," "Interviewed him," "Know her," about assorted rich and famous people. Now Lucifer, the first fallen, leader of all Evil, and ruler of earth until Jesus came back, had hugged him. Had praised Buck's work.

Lucifer had promised to come when Buck called.

And why shouldn't he? Buck had singlehandedly changed God's plans. Who else could do that? No one, that's who. Buck was the most powerful man in the universe.

With that affirmation of what Buck had long believed, Buck's brain returned to it's full functionality.

My Dinner with Evil

Chaim Rosenweig entered the yacht club's dining room, feeling the throb of his master's dark power beneath his skin. This was to be a test, Nicolae said, of his loyalty, his wit, his usefulness. As he crossed the crowded room, candles dimmed slightly, and diners paused uncomfortably, forks midway to their mouths. They felt the presence of evil, like a field mouse senses the eyes of a distant hawk. Cameron Williams was coming, and Chaim's duty was to find out what he knew, and what he suspected. The dark gift of power seemed unnecessary; Chaim had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Cameron when the sky over Israel burned with nuclear fire. And in a world where so many had gone missing, and so many more had gone mad with grief, Chaim knew he would be a familiar, comforting face. Especially in light of "Buck's" recent demotion.

Chaim watched Mr. Williams & his escort walk across the crowded room, saw the effort Cameron made to look relaxed and at home. Oddly, it wasn't the hulking gorilla of a bodyguard Nicolae sent that seemed to make him uneasy, but his travel-rumpled clothes and slightly unkempt appearance that seemed to make him feel awkward. Chaim rose from his seat as Mr. Williams approached.

"Mr. Williams! A pleasure, as always! Millions of people vanish worldwide, and we are fortunate that you were not among them!"

Most reporters cared about the story, but celebrity reporters like "Buck" Williams cared about 'access to important people'. Vanity & pride, Chaim reflected, make such excellent tools. Chaim waited until they were both seated again, waited for "Buck" to pick up the menu before speaking again.

"My friend, I've been meaning to ask you something. The meeting at the U.N., where were you?" A simple question, with one simple answer. Or with a host of complicated but dishonest answers. This was why he was here, Chaim reflected, instead of Nicolae. If Cameron was on the other side, he might tell his trusted friend Chaim Rosenweig, but he certainly would never be so honest with The Beast.

"That's the question of the ages," Cameron said. "Where are any of us?"

Rosenzweig's eyes twinkled, and Mr. Williams lowered his head while raising his menu. No doubt his cheeks were coloring out of shame.

'Well,' thought Rosenweig, 'so much for the camaraderie of shared trials.'

There remained one other matter to resolve. Buck had clearly found God before that meeting, had the Armor of the Lord shielding his mind to the illusions the Beast had woven. But as faith can be found, so too can it be lost, and Chaim has seen in Buck both pride and envy in just the few minutes of this meeting. It seemed that like the atheist in the foxhole, once Mr. Williams no longer felt the threat, he no longer followed the faith.

"It's too early to tell, of course, but if the formula works as well as it has in Israel, Botswana will immediately become one of the most fertile countries in all of Africa, if not the world." Chaim decided to play this out a bit further, to see just how pious Mr. Williams was, how strong his new-found faith might be.

"Oh, Chaim! For what? Billions of dollars that Israel no longer needs? It makes no sense! It's one thing for Isreal to feed herself for pennies on the dollar, but if you turn the African continent into a horn-of-plenty, it'll devastate economies world-wide! The farm belt of the U.S., the fertile crescent of Asia..."

Chaim suppressed a smile. Feeding billions, an end to hunger worldwide, and Cameron's first thought was of the wealthy first-worlders who would be cast down from on high.

"Cameron, please! The formula only works for grains & pulses, the most basic of food stocks. Fruits, flowers, herbs, the world will still need those. It doesn't matter how cheap the grain is when you make beer if you don't have any hops to preserve it with! Those lands you describe are rich and fertile, I'm sure they can find all sorts of budding flowers and herbs to grow." Yes. Flowers and herbs. The cocoa, the cannabis, the poppy, those crops are always in demand, and always fetch high prices.

"But why are you here? I thought I was meeting with Nicolae?" Cameron asked, seemingly oblivious.

"Ah!" Now would be a good time to see how 'Buck' responded to temptation. "We want adequate press coverage of the work we're setting up in Botswana. The impact on both a local and regional level, progress and production, all that. Mr. Carpathia remembered you worked for a global publication, and as an award-winning journalist, you might uncover elements of this story that would get missed by our PR folks. We want people to feel like they're getting the whole story, not just what we want them to hear."

Of course, Chaim knew about Cameron's humiliating demotion from international reporter to regional desk jockey, but a proud man would never admit to such a shame after being given such an offer. Would Cameron take the pious route and decline the story because of his demotion, or would he-

"Well, I understand you coming to me for the credibility my name lends," Cameron said, "but I'd need complete independence. Both you and Nicolae to know that I won't be a pawn for your organization." Cameron smiled at the end, no doubt thinking himself clever for his weak double-entendre'.

"Of course," Chaim said. It was time for the final test. If Mr. Williams was indeed a changed man, a pious servant of the Lord, then the dark powers Nicolae had gifted Chaim with would be unable to touch his mind. But pride... pride goeth before the fall...

"All right. I'll have someone contact you this week to work out travel arrangements. You should try the salmon. You'll love it." There was a near-inaudible difference in the last two sentences. Only those favored by the Beast or his Adversary would have heard the subtle, inhuman inflections.

Mr. Williams had once boasted to Chaim that he made it a habit to ignore recommendations in restaurants. It probably was one of the reasons for his nickname, because most servers would love to rhyme with it. "Buck" ordered what Rosenzweig suggested. And he loved it. Of course he did. Relished every bite. It was clear that some people never truly change. Chaim smiled over his wineglass, looking forward to telling his master that they had nothing to fear from "Buck" Williams.

Harvest of Souls, Chapter Three

A Ray Without Hope


Carrying You-Can-Call-Me-Buck, struggling helplessly in the classic riding-out-of-town-on-a-rail posture, the passengers marched him to the emergency exit. Someone opened the door, and there was a howling rush of wind.

“Awww, come on! You know you want me, baby!” he said, just before they hurled him out into the slipstream. “AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaa…!” Somewhere far, far below, he hit, producing a little ring-shaped cloud of dust.

Sofia banished her fantasy. Unfortunately, something more practical had to be done with him. For all his towering braggadocio about his exalted position at Global Weekly, Sofia found it impossible to take the man seriously. Had he been born a hidalgo in the time of the conquistadores, he would surely have worn an enormous gold-plated codpiece festooned with tassels and ribbon, while boasting of his heroic exploits as the real Don Quijote de la Mancha.

In this century, he merely sported a rumpled suit at least a couple sizes too big for him. His baby face and head of untamable short curly hair completed the look of some malicious, barely-adolescent class clown suddenly thrust into the grown-up world. Tom Hanks had done it much better and more appealingly in Big.

“Perhaps you could go and see to the passengers in First Class, and investigate any disappearances that happened there?” she asked. Having heard no commotion from that section, she doubted there would be any.

“Yes, I could do that,” he said a little too quickly, avoiding the threatening eyes of the other passengers. “I’ve also got a major cover story I’m working on,” he said with a faltering smirk, then turned and hustled briskly back to First Class as if he was a Busy Man on Very Important Busy-ness.

Sofia sighed and shook her head, glad to see the curtain close behind him. But without him there to provide a comedic, if frustrating distraction, the fearful reality of the situation returned. She snapped back into action, lighting a campfire to keep the beasts lurking in the shadows at bay.

“Sir? Ma’am,” she said to the anxious parents. “Could you please search the airplane thoroughly from front to back? If you see anything at all unusual, like an unfamiliar piece of technology, scorch marks, anything, could you make a note of it and let me know?” she said, tearing off a page from her notebook and handing them her pen.

They nodded. They’d already searched the aircraft thoroughly, but not for anything that might be related to the cause of the disappearances. They headed to the back of the cabin to start their search.

“Sir,” she said picking out another man. “Could you please go through the aircraft and try to find out how many people are missing, and write down the seat numbers with a brief description of the clothes, and if they were with anyone still here?”

“Yeah…I can do that. Do you want me to find out what they ate or drank, things like that?”

“That’s a good idea, but I think it would be best to gather the preliminary information quickly. If you could tell people that I would like to interview them and get their contact information so I can keep them updated on anything I find, I would appreciate it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sofia saw the curtain part again. Thankfully, it was the flight attendant, returning with one of the pilots. Sofia felt a little chill when she recognized him. Waiting in the terminal before takeoff, she’d seen the two flirting. That the pilot had been subconsciously fingering his wedding ring wasn’t what bothered her the most.

Now as before, she noticed the stiff tension of his body language, the way he seemed to be enduring the young woman’s presence the way a medieval monk might endure some self-inflicted torture. Why, if he wanted to remain loyal to his wife, he didn’t simply tell the poor girl that and let her find love someplace else, Sofia couldn’t fathom. She’d briefly met his eyes in the terminal, and did so again now. Alarm bells of warning went off in her hindbrain. There was hatred in those eyes.

“It’s a joke. They’re hiding, trying to—“ the pilot said.

“Ray! Their shoes, their socks, their clothes, everything was left behind! These people are gone!” The flight attendant all but clung to him in desperation. He accepted her touch, but returned only indifference.

“Sir, she’s telling the truth,” Sofia said, doing her best to keep her tone clinical and her expression neutral. She’d seen this relationship before, in a Renaissance painting of Zeus. The god sat enthroned, one hand grasping his royal scepter, the other arm resting on a cloud. His broad, muscular chest was bare, shouting his masculinity to the Cosmos. He looked straight at the viewer with a stern, almost angry expression. A petite, naked goddess crouched at his side, one hand stretched out across his lap, the other reaching up to delicately stroke his chin. Her head was tilted all the way back, looking up at him with entreaty for the tiniest bit of kindness or affection. Clearly, none would be forthcoming.

Sofia led him to her row and pointed to Mr. McGillicuddy’s suit. She gave Mrs. McGillicuddy a smile of gratitude for leaving it intact this long.

“If you look closely, you can see how the cloth was abruptly compressed by air pressure. Apparently the body was dematerialized all at once, rapidly enough that air could not have time to flow in from the sleeves and pant legs before external pressure collapsed the core areas. We’ve had several other passengers disappear in this way. I have some volunteers getting an exact count.”

Sofia watched the man’s world come apart in front of her eyes. In his world there was Order. In his world there was Discipline. People and things knew their Place. Flight checklists were carried out in their proper steps and on time. Arrivals and departures occurred on schedule. And now, Mystery had dared! Dared! To puncture the pressurized cabin of his mental universe and let him know in no uncertain terms that he was not In Control.

His eyes went wide with a fear that looked more like savage rage. The muscles of his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and the veins in his neck bulged. A glance down to his hands revealed fists tight in a white-knuckle grip. His whole body vibrated like a tuning fork, as if barely able to contain some violent inner force. The Calista Flockhart-skinny flight attendant seemed to feel it. She looked up at him with big, round blue eyes and slipped her slender arms more around him, pressing against him to give and seek reassurance.

Wrong answer, Sofia thought. The pilot—“Ray,” she’d called him—bit down on his lower lip, hard. Sofia winced in tune with the man’s own jolt of pain. Blood trickled down toward his jaw line. It wasn’t hard for Sofia to imagine this man whipping himself for the sins of the flesh in some dark monastic cell, muttering prayers to a vindictive god while his raging libido burned within him, demanding some kind of release—and transmuting into a seething fury at any woman who stirred his forbidden desires. Not hard at all. She took an involuntary step back from him, but she managed to suppress a gulp of fear.

“Miss, could you please go and get me a copy of the passenger manifest, any information you might have on what people ordered for food and drink, and a seating diagram for the plane if you have one?” she asked the flight attendant, kicking herself for the tremor she heard in her voice. “And some plastic bags—Ziplock bags if you have them, wastebasket bags and latex or plastic gloves. So I can examine the scene and collect samples for analysis.”

The flight attendant gave a jerky nod and peeled herself off of the pilot. As she passed Sofia, she turned her head to give him what was no doubt a longing glance, her cascade of honey-colored fairy-princess locks flowing over her shoulders in curls and waves.

Sofia resisted an urge to reach out to the captain and offer him solace. Instead, she kept her distance and clasped her arms behind her back, taking a military-grade parade-rest stance. “My name is Sofia. I’m a scientist,” she said, struggling to keep her voice cool and professional. The pilot’s dark eyes looked her up and down, smoldering with resentment. “Sir, could you please find out if there are any reports of this sort of thing happening anywhere else?”

“It was the Rapture…” Mrs. McGillicuddy said in a trembling voice. By now her mascara was streaked down her face, runnels of smeared black twisting their way down her wrinkled skin. Her terrified pallor made her bright-red lipstick look like a bloody slash.

“That isn’t the only possible explanation,” Sofia said, but inwardly, she knew that reassuring the pastor’s wife would be impossible. The woman had probably been eagerly dreaming of a day of inexplicable vanishings for decades, except that her clothes were supposed to be a shed husk, too.

At the sound of the word “rapture,” the pilot flinched.

“Irene was right…” he whispered, backing away stiffly. The dark blue curtain flowed over him as he passed through the bulkhead, and Sofia heard a loud crack. Did he just…slap himself?!

Harvest of Souls, Chapter Two

Not Without My Children


“Mr. Vice President! Madame Vice President! We need to go! Now!”

Richard Deming, Vice President of the United States, shielded his eyes against the sudden blazing light in his elegant Queen Anne bedroom. Secret Service agents were boiling into the room, guns drawn, taking defensive positions with rapid efficiency. He could hear the whine and whir of a landed helicopter keeping its blades spun up. His wife Beth pulled up the blankets to shield her body, squinting against the light. There was no need. The agents weren’t looking at her, but outward toward any possible threat.

“What’s happening?” Richard asked, scrambling out of bed and reaching for his boxers.

“Plane crashes. FAA is reporting six so far. Most near or at major airports, but one went down in Iowa. DoD has declared Washington restricted airspace and they’re scrambling fighters.”

“Shit!” Another goddamn 9/11! Awkwardly stumbling into his boxers, Richard grabbed some sweats from his wife’s bureau drawer and had them in his fists, when he froze. The agents upstairs were still calling the names of his children.

He tossed the sweats to Beth, feeling a mounting sense of worry.

“Are there any planes headed this way? How much time have we got?”

“Sir, one of your detail is also missing. Your evacuation is a top priority.”

“Missing? Who?”

“Jenkins.”

“Leroy? He just left?”

“We found his clothes and weapon in a pile at his post.”

“Why aren’t the children answering?” Beth said worriedly as she squirmed into the sweatshirt.

“I’ll find out,” Richard said, jogging out of the bedroom, a pair of agents automatically forming up on him. He spotted a couple agents in the living room, crouched around what had to be Jenkins’ suit. On impulse, he sprinted over to it and bent down, reaching for the jacket. His hand froze.

The agents had rifled through the abandoned clothes and DragonSkin bulletproof vest, but it was still apparent that the suit had been found still buttoned up. As if Jenkins hand stripped out of it, then took the time to put it all back together again, including the top button of his shirt and his tie, all in place. But that was impossible. The agents patrolled.

“James! Emilie! Aisha!” An agent’s voice from upstairs.

“He won’t be needing this,” Richard said, finishing his reach under the jacket to pull the gun from Jenkins’ shoulder holster. In the back of his mind, Richard knew he looked ridiculous packing a Desert Eagle in his boxers with his paunch hanging out, and that the agents were all better shots than him. But it still felt better to have a gun in his hand. Keeping his finger outside the trigger-guard, he bounded up the stairs. By now Beth had emerged from the bedroom, and turned to run alongside him, her own pair of agents giving cover.

“Get to the helicopter!” he said.

“No!” Richard knew there was no point in arguing with her, especially when she was right. Beth’s blue eyes landed on the gun, and her eyebrow twitched upward with a hint of mischief. “I’ll get the baby.” He flashed her a brief smile, then hurried into James’ bedroom. The boy was nowhere to be found. His closet was already opened. His bed was empty, but the covers weren’t thrown back.

“Emilie! James! Aisha!” he called out sternly, with a creeping fear in his voice. “Now is no time to play hide and--!” He was cut off by his wife’s scream.

Richard turned back and ran to her side, his dutiful agents in tow. Beth stood by the crib, her face pale as death. Richard stepped up beside her, fearing what he would see. It was almost a relief to see the crib empty. No blood, no horribly mutilated child…but the crib wasn’t empty. Beth had pulled back the little quilted blanket. Rickie Junior’s knit cap was there, as were the matching knit booties. Between them was the diaper, still taped closed.

He exchanged a look of baffled horror with Beth. Then he reached in and pulled up the waistband of the diaper, looking inside for something…anything. It wasn’t even soiled. Beth looked over at the baby monitor. Its green LED was lit and cruelly steady, like a treacherous guard saluting crisply in front of a looted treasury.

Richard turned and ran to the next nearest bedroom, Aisha’s. Yanking back her blankets, he found her little nightgown crumpled onto the sheets, one sleeve draped over the stuffed unicorn she never went anywhere without. He reached out to touch the indentation on her pillow where her head should have been with trembling fingers.

“Oh, God, no…” Richard spun and ran back out into the hall. Beth emerged from Emilie’s room, flashing him a look of terror. By unspoken agreement, they ran into James’ room, Richard stalling just long enough to let Beth through the door first. She pulled back the blankets, then turned and threw her arms around her husband, burying her face in his shoulder.

Agents downstairs were still calling the children’s names, but the sounds of systematic ransacking were subsiding as the agents searched the last few possible hiding places.

“Sir…we have to go now.”

Richard whirled on the agent.

“WE ARE NOT! LEAVING THIS HOUSE! WITHOUT OUR CHILDREN!”

The agent consulted his earpiece.

“Sir, we’ve searched the house and the grounds completely.”

“SEARCH AGAIN!” Beth cried.

“Ma’am, we have to get you and your husband to a secure location.”

“Why? I’m just the fucking understudy!” Richard snapped. “If any of our children get away from whoever’s got them, they’re going to try to get here. And by God, their mother and father are going to be here waiting for them.”

“Sir…President Huckabee is missing as well. His entire family…” Richard stared into dark glasses for several pounding heartbeats. The gun in his hand snapped up to point its .50 cal. muzzle in the agent’s face. “Mr. Vice President—“

“The best goddamn security force on the planet,” Richard said in a low, deadly tone. “On the fucking planet! Now, I want you to tell me how in the hell someone can just waltz in here and steal my children out of their beds—out of their goddamn clothes for Christ’s sake!—and not one of you guys hears or sees or does a goddamn thing! What is this, a coup d’ etat? Hell, they even took one of your own guys for bonus points! Do you seriously expect me to believe that shit?”

“Mr. Vice President,” the agent said with a level of calm Richard would have admired under any other circumstances, “We don’t know any more than you do. That’s why we need to get you and Mrs. Deming to a secure location—“

“Secure location? THIS is supposed to be a fucking ‘secure location!’ Here’s the deal: You tell me what. The fuck. You people have done with my children. Or I blow your brains out, and then ask him" Richard said, jerking his head to indicate the detail's second in command, "what the fuck you guys have done WITH OUR CHILDREN!”

“Mr. Vice President, lower your weapon!” another agent said. They were clearly reluctant to make a move against the man they had sworn to protect, but they also had procedures in place for dealing with a charge who became mentally unstable and dangerous.

“You lower your goddamn weapons! Or use them. There’s two things I will not stand for: One is some banana-republic coup d’etat in my country. The other is anyone on this green Earth threatening my family, for any reason, what-so-fucking-ever.”

The phone rang.

Harvest of Souls, Chapter One

The Investigators


Sofia couldn’t move. Transfixed on the cool slab like a frog pinned down for dissection, there was only the white noise of the ship, the all-encompassing bright light that hurt her eyes, and the sound of her own panicked breaths.

A face. Pointed chin, high round forehead, ridiculously tiny mouth and nose. Impossibly thin neck, and a slender body with spindly insect limbs. But Sofia hardly noticed those details. The eyes. The eyes. Huge almond-shaped orbs cut from the dark void of space.

Ellen? Jay? Where are you?

They scrutinized her with an utterly impersonal curiosity, missing nothing. Their abyssal gaze tore through her naked flesh to violate her soul. Sofia tried to scream, hurl a stream of blistering curses, cry out ‘What do you want from me?!’ The words stuck in her throat. Her lips couldn’t move, save to tremble.

Ellen! Jay! This is the worst stunt you two have ever pulled! When I get my hands on you I’m gonna tan both your hides!

The eyes raked down Sofia’s body. There was no sexual interest, no personal interest at all. Nonetheless, Sofia struggled against her invisible bonds.

~Are you pregnant?~

The foreign voice inside her head chilled her like an ice-cold drop of mercury trickling down her spine. Somehow she could feel that the creature got the answer it wanted. Its arm reached for a tray beside the table Sofia was lying on. Too-long fingers wrapped around something. An instrument of shiny metal and translucent crystal, vaguely and threateningly phallic, with a cluster of sharp needles at its tip.

The pure black wrap-around eyes did not merely dismiss Sofia’s will, her horror at what was coming, her very being. Such things were so far beneath the creature’s concern that they did not even strike its consciousness. Its teardrop-shaped head turned to her pudenda with clinical detachment as it moved to insert the device—

A bloodcurdling scream. Not just Sofia’s, as she jolted bolt upright in her seat. Her heart hammered as she frantically looked around, taking in the clean, off-white walls of the airliner, the rows of little oval windows on each side, some of them with plastic shields pulled down like closed eyelids. Her thick, wavy black hair bounced off her cheeks as her head spun back and forth.

The reassurance she should have felt seeing the familiar, human contours of the airliner eluded her as she felt a mounting sense of panic spreading through the other passengers.

“Ellen?! Jay?!” a woman cried, hurrying back down the aisle, stooping to look under the seats. “Where are you?! Come here this instant!” she said, her voice cracking with fear.

“Hey, lady, shaddap, some of us are tryin’ to sleep,” a half-mumbled complaint from further back in the aircraft replied.

“Frank?” Mrs. McGillicuddy said, her voice a mix of interrupted sleep and confusion. Her voluminous cloud of too-elaborately-styled hair was dented on one side, no longer ministry-worthy. She was looking at the seat between herself and Sofia, where her husband had been sitting. Sofia’s dark eyes followed hers, and she gasped with a sharp intake of breath.

“What the...? Don’t touch anything,” Sofia said. She reached into her purse to retrieve a terrycloth-wrapped elastic band and pulled her hair back into a ponytail so it would not drape into the “scene” and contaminate the evidence. She turned in her seat so she could bend over for a closer look, careful to avoid sudden moves that might jolt the clothes.

The man’s suit sat in his seat like the shed skin of a snake. Sofia’s throat went dry as she noted the way the pants were scrunched up in the waist and hips. So was what she could see of the shirt in the torso area. Vacuum. And for that matter, the fact that the jacket was only slightly slumped at the collar but otherwise still upright, as if it had been pressed into the seat back hard enough for friction to keep it from collapsing. Fourteen point seven pounds of air pressure per square inch could do that…

Sofia whipped out her iPhone and started taking pictures.

A hefty leather-bound Bible with gilded pages lay in the suit’s lap, turned to the Book of Daniel. The arms of the gray polyester suit-jacket and cheap dress shirt were still aimed toward it, as if they would still be holding the book, if they only had hands.

A little scattering of teeth nested in the crook of the Bible’s pages like a bizarre bookmark. If you change your mind and decide you want to talk, I’ll be here, feasting on the Word. Those were the last words the man had said to her, when she’d claimed a need to sleep as a way to escape a session of evangelism. With a shudder, she examined them more closely. Three of the teeth were joined to a flesh-colored plastic resting plate and metal connectors to attach them to their natural neighbors—a dental bridge. The others turned out to be crowns, and there were a few bits of metal she guessed were fillings.

How could this happen?! No, it couldn’t be them. That was a hypnogogic dream, she thought, putting her abduction experience—and the nightmares it still caused, out of her mind. Whatever this is, it’s happening outside my head…isn’t it?

Sofia bit her lip, and glanced at the airline magazines in the pocket in the back of the seat ahead of hers. She could read the words without difficulty. Apart from the clothes, the little details of reality were stable and continuous. Mrs. McGillicuddy looked on with wide, teary eyes. Her hands occasionally fluttered over the scene as she fought a nearly irresistible urge to grab something of her husband to hold onto.

“Oh God!” the woman in the aisle said, clapping her hands over her mouth as she caught sight of the uninhabited suit, eyes wide with recognition.

“Did you find your children’s clothes in their seats like this?” Sofia asked, looking up from her work.

“Y-yes.”

By now several other passengers were starting to call out for missing loved ones.

“Children…missing?” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “Oh dear Lord! It’s the Rapture!” Her eyes brimmed with tears as she started to tremble with incipient panic. Sofia set her iPhone down in her lap and took the woman gently by the shoulders.

“We don’t know that yet ma’am. There could be other explanations. We don’t even know that anyplace but this airplane is affected. Besides, if it was the Rapture, you’d have been taken too, wouldn’t you?”

“What else could it be? Oh Lord, I…I…must not have been sincere enough!”

“It could have been anything ma’am. Some kind of secret test like the Philadelphia Experiment, maybe even a natural phenomenon we haven’t encountered before. The Fortean literature is filled with reports of mysterious disappearances.” Sofia was highly skeptical of such things, and had personally investigated and found rational explanations some of the most popular accounts. But right now there was a terrified woman who needed alternatives to the idea that her God had turned his back on her and left her in the crosshairs of his wrath.

Sofia stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said loudly, stepping into the aisle. “Whatever is happening here, the first thing we need to do is stay calm.”

“Stay calm?! My children are gone! We could all be next!” a man shouted. “And you want me to, what? Just relax and read a book?!”

“We’re flying at about six hundred miles an hour, thirty thousand feet above the ground. Do you think panicking could help?” Sofia said levelly. Emotions played across the man’s face. Fear, anger, helplessness… Tears welled in his eyes, but he gave a little nod.

“Alright, everyone who is missing someone, or sitting near someone who has disappeared, try not to disturb the clothes. We have to treat them like a crime scene. They’re the only clues we have about what happened. I don’t know if there’s a way to bring anybody back or not, but if there is, finding out what happened is the first step.”


Cameron “Buck” Williams sat in First Class, proof-reading his article about genetically-modified algae and bacteria developed by a biotech firm in Israel. His brow furrowed as he tried to make sense out of another one of Dr. Rosensweig’s explanations. All that science crap flew right over Cameron’s head, so he had no idea how to go about editing it.

Leave it raw, let the Gang of Four handle it. The Gang of Four was a team of junior writers and researchers Stanton Bailey had provided him as a personal staff to do the grunt-work.

Screams from the direction of Business Class and Coach broke Buck’s concentration. As far as he could tell, there was nothing wrong with the airplane, not so much as a moment of heavy turbulence. He grabbed his notebook and headed back to have a look, just in case there was a story to be had.

He stood in the doorway of the bulkhead that separated first class from the rest of the aircraft with a quizzical expression, trying to sort out the bizarre scene in front of him. It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. People were calling names and staring into empty seats as if in panicked search for missing companions, or children. A young woman was leaning over toward the window seat comforting a crying old lady. As the younger woman released the elderly lady’s shoulders and leaned back, Buck caught a glimpse of a suit jacket, shirt and tie laid against the back of the seat, without a man in it. Fear and shock in the eyes of other passengers seemed to rule out a practical joke. But…people don’t disappear from airplanes in flight…

The young woman stood up from her aisle seat and stepped out into the middle. I’d hit that, Buck thought. Definitely. She had dusky skin and a head of thick, shiny black hair somewhat artlessly pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a sleek black leather jumpsuit that flattered her curvaceous figure.

Buck bristled as she started giving orders in a confident voice, telling people not to disturb the “clothes.”

“Excuse me, but who put you in charge?” Buck said. The woman turned striking gray eyes on him. They stood out brilliantly against her mocha complexion, fixing him with a penetrating gaze that made him lower his eyes to her chest.

“My name is Sofia Miranda Teresa de la Garza,” she said melodiously with a hint of a Spanish accent. “I am an astrophysicist and paranormal investigator working with the Center for Inquiry. And I’m not ‘in charge,’ I’m just--”

“A ‘paranormal investigator?’” Buck chuckled. “Seen any ghosts lately? Woo-ooo-OOO-ooooo,” he said, wiggling his fingers in an ooky-spooky gesture. “I’m Cameron Williams, senior writer for Global Weekly. But you can call me Buck,” he added with a lopsided grin. The other passengers didn’t laugh at his joke, staring at him open-mouthed instead. Being an award-winning reporter whose stories frequently graced the cover of the Weekly, Buck was used to the adoring public reactions that came with his fame, but this was almost enough to make him feel uncomfortable.

The woman looked at him incredulously for several seconds.

“As the leading reporter for a major news magazine, I’m much better qualified to lead an investiga—“

“You fatuous, supercilious popinjay! These people’s loved ones have apparently vanished into thin air, and your biggest concern is who’s in charge?!” she said, her eyes flashing like a freshly-drawn sword.

“It should be someone whose idea of ‘investigation’ doesn’t involve collecting blurry pictures of Bigfoot,” Buck said, feeling his neck redden and his pulse surge.

“If you want to investigate, then investigate.” Sofia turned to the willowy blond senior flight attendant who had just emerged from the service room in the rear of the aircraft and stopped in her tracks, trying to process the impossible situation of passengers just vanishing out of their clothes. “Could you please go to the cockpit, check on the status of the flight crew and the plane, and see if the pilots can find out if people have disappeared anywhere else?”

“Oh God! The pilots! What if they’re gone too?” a woman said, her voice rising to a high pitch of mounting horror.

“The plane is flying straight and level,” Sofia said, loudly enough for her voice to carry through the cabin. “We are not in any immediate danger of crashing. The flight crew, flight attendants, and air traffic controllers are fully trained in dealing with the unlikely possibility of a pilotless aircraft.”

Buck doubted the flight attendant could do anything for them if the pilots were gone, but the ‘paranormal investigator’s’ words apparently had their intended effect: staving off, barely, an outburst of unrestrained panic. Buck had to fight down a jolt of anger at himself for feeling fear for his safety, and then relief at the woman’s words.

“Our first order of business is to find out what we can about the disappearances,” she added. Buck felt that too, and saw it spread through the passengers. Direction. Purpose. We are not helpless victims. Let’s roll.

The flight attendant snapped out of shell-shock, nodded, and headed toward the cockpit at a brisk pace. Buck took a moment to check her out as she passed, noting that she filled out her skirt rather nicely. He turned his attention back to Sofia. For the briefest moment, he had a thought of her and the flight attendant together. Their luscious lips shyly, hesitantly, yet irresistibly drawn together for a languorous kiss. The flight attendant’s slender fingers reaching for the standing collar of Sofia’s jumpsuit to begin slowly, oh so slowly, unzipping…

In the present, he leaned to get a better view as Sophia crouched to reach under her seat to pull out a briefcase and set it on her seat. Bent over the suitcase, she seemed so completely oblivious to his existence that he might as well have been watching through her bedroom window with binoculars. She snapped back upright in a crisp movement, having retrieved a notebook and pen.

The momentary stirring in Buck’s loins was doused as she started speaking again.

“I’m going to write a set of questions on the first page of this notebook. If you could each write your contact information on a separate page and then answer—“

“Now is not the time to be taking orders from Miss Weekly World News,” Buck said, rewarding his fellow passengers with a conspiratorial smirk. The smirk became a full-blown grin as he turned to Sofia. “Why don’t you go back and see if you can break into the booze while the stewardesses are busy? I know that’s normally reserved for First Class, but we can break the rules just this once. Am I right?” he said, turning to invite the other passengers into his little scheme. “While you’re doing that, I’ll start taking statements.”

“Hey buddy,” a bull-necked man with a graying high-and-tight snapped. “You got a reason to keep us from finding out the truth?” Buck turned to him with a quizzical look.

“…Um…What? No…of course not! But who couldn’t use a good stiff drink right about now, eh?” Buck’s smirk faltered into a nervous laugh as the passengers turned their gaze on him. Meeting their eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He struggled to grasp why their looks were filled with suspicion and incipient hatred.

Then it hit him. It was like he’d fallen into an episode of The X-Files. His lofty mainstream press credentials, the speed-dial list and Rolodex full of insider contacts any reporter would kill for, the awards and photos with world leaders, celebrities and Fortune 100 CEO’s on the wall in his palatial Manhattan office, his long list of Establishment-friendly articles and op-ed pieces, his casual mockery of Sofia’s fringe ‘credentials’…all extreme liabilities in the topsy-turvy world within the pressurized cabin of this 747.

Here and now, Paranormal Girl would be exactly what the doctor ordered. And Cameron Williams, the Insider’s Insider, would be the closest thing they’d have to a suspect.

James and the Rapture

Where's Phil? James wondered. Doesn't he always turn up when the world goes to hell?

For the world had unquestionably gone to hell. Even the terrible chaos when Sammy was born hadn't been as bad as this - back then, it had only been James's life that started to come apart at the seams. Now, it was everyone else's life.

Sammy toddled across the room to retrieve her giraffe from the settee. Only a couple of days ago, Claire had marvelled how sure-footed she was at just thirteen months; it seemed like a lifetime ago. Sammy's early walking was now the least incredible thing about her.

The world's children had vanished, in an instant and without warning. The television news was full of nothing else, and neither government nor scientists had anything that sounded remotely like an explanation. Everyone under the age of thirteen was mysteriously gone.

Except Sammy.

"Why...?" asked Claire, staring at Sammy as if she expected her to join the rest at any moment.

"No-one knows why everyone else has vanished," James said. "Maybe if we knew that, we'd know why Sammy hasn't."

Claire nodded vaguely - it was the first time in years that she'd been anything less than completely in control. He'd imagined she would be the one to leap into action, handing out brisk advice until everyone was pulling together again, but she was as shell-shocked as anyone else. Maybe the fact that her useless brother still had his daughter was too much for her to take.

"Can you do me a favour?" he asked. "We're nearly out of milk, and there's not a lot else left either."

"I've only got enough for myself," she said. It sounded like an automatic response. "And the shops are ... I won't go for you."

He shook his head. "I was going to ask if you could stay here while I went. I don't think it would be a good idea to take Sammy, do you?" They would probably tear him apart for not suffering what they'd suffered, then tear her apart because they all wanted her so badly. On his own, he could probably fight his way through the crowds like anyone else who hadn't lost children personally.

"No. I suppose not."

"And ... well, I don't suppose you've got any cloth nappies lying around in the loft? Only, buying nappies probably isn't such a good plan either."

That was enough to pull her back to the surface. "Yes, I've got a box somewhere. Get some food, and I'll go and fetch them."

There was no fresh milk: nothing fresh at all. A wild-eyed woman was loading the shop's entire stock of UHT into a bag, and when James tried to take a couple of packets, she turned on him. "Leave them alone. I need them for my baby."

For a second, he thought he'd met someone else who had been mysteriously spared. Then he noticed the carrycot beside her. Tucked up in the blankets, like a parody of a baby, was a cat. "Let me have a couple," he said. "I've got a baby at home too."

"You have?" The hope in her eyes was so terrifying that he mumbled an excuse and ran towards the soup aisle. There was almost nothing left, but he took a few tins of oxtail, which had to be better than nothing, and found a single tin of Sammy's favourite Cream of Mushroom half-buried behind some discarded boxes. The boost that gave his hopes soon vanished when another mad-looking girl tried to grab his packet of milk, crying something that sounded like a child's name. He stuffed everything into his bag and got out, before it could get any worse.

"Someone was here," Claire told him when he got home.

"What do you mean, someone?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. They banged on the door, but I took Sammy upstairs and hid. There are bad people around."

"What else is new?" muttered James. Unhinged parents with nothing left to lose couldn't do any worse than Piconus's cronies had already tried when Sammy was a baby, but it was no use trying to tell Claire that, especially now. "I didn't get much. I hope she'll eat oxtail soup."

"You're hopeless," said Claire, sounding almost like her old self. "I'll fetch the nappies."

Five minutes after she'd gone, someone banged on the door. James weighed up the possibilities: bad people, or Phil? He squinted through the spyhole, and saw the unmistakeable features of Sammy's uncle. Weak with relief, he unlocked the door. "I knew you'd come. You always come when things go to hell."

#

"I was with the Heart," said Phil. "I didn't even know that anything had happened until I set out into the human world again."

"How could you not notice the children vanishing?"

The look Phil gave him was almost reassuring: one thing, at least, hadn't changed. "Our children, few though they are, have not vanished."

"Why...?" He looked down at Sammy. "I suppose that's why she's safe."

"It seems to be a logical deduction," said Phil. "I explained to you once that Sammy is more elven than human, and this seems to confirm it."

James imagined a whole community full of children, untouched by whatever had taken their human counterparts. "Aren't you worried that your children will vanish as well?"

"Are you worried that adults will begin vanishing?" asked Phil.

"I ... hadn't really thought about it. If I did, I'd probably crack up."

Phil nodded. "Just so."

"But ... Do you think Sammy would be safe now, with your people? The Heart said she was special and everything..."

"She wouldn't be physically harmed," said Phil. "But old taboos take a long time to die. She wouldn't be received with warmth either."

James sighed. "I don't think she'd be safe here at all. Everyone who's lost children - I suppose it's like Melly a million times over."

"It has to be your choice. You are her only living parent."

He could give Sammy to Melly, and not worry that he was handing her over to certain death. In fact, it sounded like things were ticking over just as normal in the elven world, so he would probably be sparing her a lot of pain. Did she know him by now, well enough to miss him, or was it just that he would miss her more than he could bear?

Rather than confront the question, he asked, "So what's caused it?"

"I don't know."

"I know you aren't certain, but you've got some ideas, haven't you?"

Phil shook his head gravely. "You think that just because it's incomprehensible to you, I must know all about it. But this is not an elven thing. The only elves it touches are me and Sammy - and it touches both of us indirectly. Whatever it is - and its nature is strange and shadowed - it is a human thing."

"In other words, not your problem. Oh, Jesus Christ. What a mess."

Left Behindfeld, Act III

Left Behindfeld: a comedy about a book about nothing. The following covers the "activity" of Tribulation Force.

Featuring:
“Buck” Williams = Jerry Seinfeld
Rayford Steele = George Costanza
Chloe Steele = Elaine Bennis
Rev. Bruce Barnes = Kramer
Guest starring Christina Hendricks as Hattie Durham
Plus special guest star playing the role of Nicolae Carpathia


ACT 3

[SCENE: A Chinese restaurant. JERRY and GEORGE are already seated.]

GEORGE: They’re almost a half-hour late! Where could they be?

JERRY: I don’t know. I called Elaine and left her a message with the address & the table time.

GEORGE: Are they standing us up? Did you talk to Elaine? What did she find out about Hattie? What did she say to Hattie about me?

JERRY: I haven’t heard from Elaine. Maybe she’s still at home. I’ll go call & see if I can reach her.

JERRY gets up, goes off-screen to the pay phones.

[Cut to: a pulpit on a dias; KRAMER comes into frame from the left, wearing rumpled frock, unshaven. He stumbles as he walks up, catching himself on the pulpit, which nearly tips over. He straightens up, and runs a hand through his horribly wiry hair.]

KRAMER: Uh, hey. Hey everybody…

[Cut back to the restaurant. ELAINE is just getting seated. JERRY walks in from the other side of the screen]

JERRY: Oh good, you made it. I just checked my voice mail to see if you’d called.

GEORGE: Where’s Hattie? Didn’t you two come together?

ELAINE: George, she’s not coming.

GEORGE: You didn’t tell her I would be here, did you?

ELAINE: Well, I wasn’t going use your story about not feeling safe alone with Jerry!

JERRY (to George): You think she’s not safe being alone with me?

ELAINE: Actually, after some of the things she said, I’m not too sure about you.

GEORGE: It was just part of the plan, Jerry. It’s not like you two need my permission to date. Though if anyone had asked, I would have offered my blessing. I’m happy to chaperon…

JERRY: You know you’re perfectly safe with me, don’t you Elaine?

ELAINE: From what Hattie said, I’m starting to think any woman would be safe alone with you…

GEORGE: Why did you ruin my perfect plan? We could have had a nice dinner, talked about Jesus, and shamed her into quitting her new job and breaking up with the Anti-Christ! Now I gotta go think up a new plan!

JERRY (to Elaine): So, still want dinner?

END CREDITS

[End Credits music bed playing]

[JERRY is talking on the phone in his apartment]

JERRY: You know, in spite of it all, I think dinner went OK.

[cut to GEORGE sitting on the couch of his own apartment, holding the phone]

GEORGE: What’d you talk about?

JERRY: How much we want to talk to each other, when we could meet to talk again, what kinds of things we might talk about next time.

GEORGE: Then what?

JERRY: Well, I wanted to check my voice mail to make sure I hadn’t missed any calls, and she decided she’d rather go home.

[cut to KRAMER, standing by the door of a church, shaking hands with the parishioners. Nearby, a man in a dark suit stands, watching him.]

OLDER MALE CHURCH PATRON: A very interesting sermon. Do you believe Carpathia is the Anti-Christ?

KRAMER (nervously smiling): Well, now, I never said that, did I?

FEMALE CHURCH PATRON: But you said that the Anti-Christ would be known by certain signs! And Carpathia meets all the signs!

KRAMER (increasingly nervous, looking & smiling at MAN IN DARK SUIT): I’m certainly not naming any names! Not pointing any fingers! The Anti-Christ could be anybody, really.

MALE CHURCH PATRON: But your sermon seemed pretty –

KRAMER: Hey buddy, Scripture is a mysterious thing! Don’t go around trying to put words in the mouth of God!

OTHER CHURCH PATRON: So you’re saying Carpathia is not the Anti-Christ?

KRAMER (flustered): Um, ah, er, God works in mysterious ways. Don’t try to second guess the mind of god! It’s all there in the Book of Revelations! It’s in the Bible people!

[cut to HATTIE walking down the street with someone at night; we can only see him from behind; he is blonde, and wearing a long dark coat. ]

HATTIE: I’m so glad to see you. I’ve had a really bad day. This guy I used to work with is still trying to get in touch with me. When we worked together, all he would talk about was how unhappy he was with his wife. Now, he’s trying to get me to have dinner with him, apparently for Jesus’ sake. He’s really creepy around women in general; he actually got one of his female friends to ask me out for him!

CARPATHIA (still from behind): He’s probably just realized most people never get a second chance, and regretting that he missed his opportunity for happiness. Is he still hanging around that washed-up journalist?

HATTIE: Yeah. They’re probably on the phone right now, talking about Jesus. Still, there’s something really not right about him. He always acts like he’s the most important person in the room. I’m almost worried he’ll try to do something to me for rejecting him.

CARPATHIA turns to HATTIE, revealing guest-star ROBERT REDFORD

CARPATHIA: I wouldn’t worry about it. Guys like that are all talk, no action. (smiles) [FREEZE FRAME, END CREDITS]

Left Behindfeld, Act II, Scene II

Left Behindfeld: a comedy about a book about nothing. The following covers the "activity" of Tribulation Force.

Featuring:
“Buck” Williams = Jerry Seinfeld
Rayford Steele = George Costanza
Chloe Steele = Elaine Bennis
Rev. Bruce Barnes = Kramer
Guest starring Christina Hendricks as Hattie Durham
Plus special guest star playing the role of Nicolae Carpathia

SCENE: JERRY’S apartment. Jerry is eating peanuts and talking with GEORGE.

JERRY: So, any news on the ex-girlfriend?

GEORGE: Hey! We were never physical! It was purely a flirting thing!

JERRY: Do you think it’s a purely professional relationship between those two? The stewardess & the anti-Christ? I hear he’s really handsome.

GEORGE: They’re called flight attendants now. And what’s that supposed to mean?

JERRY: Well, I mean, he’s the Secretary General to the U.N., and he hired a flight attendant to be his personal assistant.

GEORGE: Are you suggesting that there’s something improper going on between the two of them?

JERRY: He’s the anti-Christ, I don’t think it’s possible for him to have proper relationships.

GEORGE: It does kind of bother me that they might be sleeping with each other.

JERRY: Oh, if he's the spawn of Satan, I doubt there's much sleeping.

GEORGE: So what do you think I should do? Should I tell her he's the fourth horseman? You know, so she can save her soul, and break up with him?

JERRY: Hmmm, I dunno. What if she really likes him? I mean, this guy gives her a job, treats her nice, and frankly, her last boyfriend was you…

GEORGE: You don't think that if I told her about this anti-Christ business, that she would rat me out to him? You know, tell him that I know what he is.

JERRY: It's a definite possibility.

GEORGE: Oh man. He’s the head of the U.N.; he could probably have me killed or tortured or locked up!

JERRY: What’s this about dinner with Elaine?

GEORGE: Oh yeah, I sort-of told her you wanted to have dinner with her. But I guess she feels uncomfortable being alone around you, so I suggested she bring Hattie along, and then I’d show up after you all arrived to make it a four-some! That way, I can talk to her about her satanic boss, and she won’t be expecting it!

JERRY: That sounds like a perfectly well-thought out plan. I’ll call for reservations. (walks over to the phone & starts dialing)

KRAMER bursts through the door, lit cigar in hand, unshaven, shirt un-tucked and rumpled.

JERRY: Oh hey Kramer. How’s the sermon coming?

KRAMER: Bad, Jerry. I think this Andes guy is having me watched!

GEORGE (to Kramer): Carpathia?

KRAMER: I don’t know what do to, Jerry. I can’t keep silent, not when I know the truth! But I can’t warn people he’s the anti-Christ, or Mr. Alps will have me rubbed out.

JERRY (to George): Yeah, Carpathia. (into phone) No, not you. Yes, for four. Six-o-clock. OK (Hangs up the phone)

KRAMER: Hey, what was that I heard about a foursome just before I came in? You do know that sort of thing is, ah, un-godly? (tilts head and makes clicking noise)

JERRY: Not like that. We’re just having dinner with Elaine and George’s ex-girlfriend.

GEORGE: She’s not my ex-girlfriend. She’s working for the Anti-Christ!

JERRY: And we think she might also be dating the Anti-Christ.

KRAMER: Whoa! Dating your boss? Now that’s a serious no-no! I don’t remember this one, George. What’d she look like?

GEORGE: Here. Her picture’s in the paper because she’s working for you-know-who… (snorts derisively)

KRAMER looks at the paper, does a double-take.

KRAMER: Giggity! You were getting with that, George?

GEORGE (annoyed): It was never a physical thing!

KRAMER (grinning): Too bad! If you’re going to pay the penance, you might as well enjoy the sin! That’s what I say!

JERRY: And you’re a minister!

KRAMER (gesturing with his lit cigar): But not a very good one!

Left Behindfeld, Act II, Scene I

Left Behindfeld: a comedy about a book about nothing. The following covers the "activity" of Tribulation Force.

Featuring:
“Buck” Williams = Jerry Seinfeld
Rayford Steele = George Costanza
Chloe Steele = Elaine Bennis
Rev. Bruce Barnes = Kramer
Guest starring Christina Hendricks as Hattie Durham
Plus special guest star playing the role of Nicolae Carpathia


ACT 2
SCENE: busy coffee shop. KRAMER is standing in line with several other patrons.

Another customer approaches KRAMER

PATRON: Thank you, Kramer, for warning us about the Anti-Christ.

A MAN IN BLACK overhears this, and looks over at KRAMER. KRAMER notices the MAN IN BLACK, and is startled.

An older couple approaches KRAMER

OLDER MAN: Kramer, with all of the strange things happening lately, I can’t tell you how much of a comfort your sermons have been for me.
KRAMER (nervously): Well, I don’t know about that. I just try to speak the gospel, and offer comfort. The book’s the same as it’s always been!

OLDER WOMAN: Yes, but now, with the disappearances, and the treaty with Israel...

KRAMER: Nope! I’m just reading the Gospels! Same as I did last week, and last year!

The MAN IN BLACK stares at KRAMER, and gets up as a young woman approaches KRAMER.

YOUNG WOMAN: Reverend, I just wanted to say-

KRAMER (frightened): No, no, you’ve got me confused with someone else. Whatever you think I said I didn’t say, and even if I said it I didn’t mean it because it wasn’t true and you couldn’t prove I said it anyway.

KRAMER bolts for the door.

END SCENE

Left Behindfeld, Act I, Scene III

Left Behindfeld: a comedy about a book about nothing. The following covers the "activity" of Tribulation Force.

Featuring:
“Buck” Williams = Jerry Seinfeld
Rayford Steele = George Costanza
Chloe Steele = Elaine Bennis
Rev. Bruce Barnes = Kramer
Guest starring Christina Hendricks as Hattie Durham
Plus special guest star playing the role of Nicolae Carpathia


[SCENE: GEORGE and ELAINE are sitting in a car, driving through downtown Chicago]

GEORGE: So, uh, what’s going on between you & Jerry?

ELAINE: What? I dunno. He seems nice. He does call me an awful lot though.

GEORGE: Yeah, me too. I think he just likes the phone.

ELAINE: Who likes the phone?

GEORGE: He does, apparently.

ELAINE: I mean, if it’s for someone out-of-town, I can see using the phone to chat. Or if it’s late at night and you can’t meet in person, I can see using the phone.

GEORGE: He’s called me late at night when he couldn’t sleep.

ELAINE: (pause)

GEORGE: He just wanted to talk about the Bible. It was a Biblical chat! Nothing more! Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

ELAINE: Aaanyways, why would you call to talk to someone who lives in the same city as you? Just seems kind of weird to me.

GEORGE: Then don’t see him. Don’t talk to him.

ELAINE: On the other hand, he does have that sort of “older man/father figure” thing going for him. And you seem to think he’s OK.

GEORGE: Did you know Hattie Durham was in town?

ELAINE: Your ex-girlfriend? No, why?

GEORGE: She’s not my ex-girlfriend, nothing physical ever happened. I heard she got a new job with the U.N., and I wanted to make sure everything was OK with her. You know, how she’s getting along with the new boss, if she likes New York, if she’s seeing anyone…

ELAINE: You want to call her up and ask her THAT?

GEORGE: Actually, we sort of parted on not-so-great terms, so I was kind of hoping that… you would call her. You know, woman-to-woman.

ELAINE: Why should I do that?

GEORGE: Well, maybe if there was a certain journalistic-type you were interested in, I could arrange a date. (GEORGE claps his hands in excitement) That’s perfect! A double-date! You tell her you want to meet with Jerry, but that you need a, ah, what’s the female term for a wingman?

ELAINE: Wingman?

GEORGE: Nevermind. Just tell her you don’t want to meet him alone, so ask if she’ll have dinner with you.

ELAINE: You’re not going to be there, are you?

GEORGE: It’s perfect! It’s foolproof!

ELAINE: Oh, there’s proof of a fool around here somewhere…

[END SCENE]