Right Behind

The End of the World, Epilogue

2008-07-20T22:05:00.000-07:00

Jack stared down at the gun in his right hand, studied it, hefted its weight, turned it over.

He'd bought the .40 cal XD at the same time Emily got pregnant. She hated the gun, but he'd insisted she learn how to use it. So they'd spent Saturday afternoons at the shooting range putting holes in to pieces of paper with man-shaped silhouettes printed on them. He'd been so convinced that this was just one way he'd always be able to protect his wife and child. His wife and children.

He turned the gun, looked it straight in the eye.

With his mind's eye he followed the shallow notches of the barrel's rifling as they twisted their way down. He followed them all the way down to the hollow-point bullet as it sat their, waiting.

That bullet had a name on it. "Jack."

He'd written it there himself.

His finger tightened on the trigger. Maybe this time. He closed his eyes tight, ready.

No.

The gun fell limply to his side, loosely gripped in his rebellious right hand.

He looked up, eyes roving his son's nursery. He'd been sitting in the rocking chair where Emily had nursed their son with that lovely, beatific smile of hers since, well, pretty much since that morning when his world fell apart. At least, it felt that way. He barely recalled waking and sleeping, barely registered the daily visits from his or Emily's parents. He could see their pleading faces, hear their sobbing words. "We loved her," they all said, "We loved him. We lost a daughter, a grandson. Please, please come back to us. We can't lose a son, too."

He raised his left arm, studied the big, block letters, looked at the words, now beginning to scar over, that he'd carved there.

I HOPE YOU HAVE A LONELY LIFE.

Those words surrounded him.

Before he'd made them a part of himself he'd scrawled them all over the walls of his cell, written in marker, pen, paint, carved with a screwdriver. They covered the bright, happy clouds his and Emily's parents had so lovingly painted such a short time before.

The nearly empty baby book lay in tatters in the corner where he'd thrown it after tearing out the empty pages in a rage. A crumpled photo of Emily and Nate stared at him around the blade of the pocket knife he'd driven in to one of the posts on the crib after recovering it from the trash.

As far as he knew, nobody except his parents missed him. His boss hadn't called to ask why he wasn't at work. Not even the bills came any more to remind him that if nothing else his creditors cared about him. The world, he'd heard, had just kind of shut down. His mother had told him that signs of life were returning, but only since the news came that women were starting to get pregnant again.

It didn't matter to Jack. As far as he was concerned his world had ended on a nearly empty stretch of Iowa expressway. He lifted the gun again and studied it. His world had ended the day he learned he couldn't protect them.

The doorbell rang.

He levered himself up out of the rocking chair and shuffled towards the door, wondering why he even bothered, hoping they'd be gone by the time they got there. He opened the door, hoping to see an empty stoop.

A pair of strange, plasticine smiles greeted him.

He realized with a start that he was still holding the gun and shifted it behind him.

The smiling pair didn't seem to notice. They just stared at him, those strange, out of place smiles making them seem more like robots than people. Robots designed to look like a man and a woman. Robots programmed to smile and stare.

"Well?" he finally croaked out, realizing it had been a long time since he'd used his voice.

"Hiya, neighbor!" the she-bot chirped out. "We're just in your neighborhood going around and introducing ourselves."

"Why?" he asked, more from a sense of social obligation than curiosity.

"We'd like to invite you to church," he-bot said. "We just started New Life Resurrection Church right here in town and we want everyone to know the love of god before it's too late."

"Before what's too late?"

She-bot blinked. "Why, the end of the world, of course." The smile never changed.

"We've already received a most wonderful message from god," he-bot added. "When he took all the true believers and children to be with him."

"He took my Jeffy and my little Claire," she-bot added through her hateful double-row of gleaming teeth. "I'm sure they're happy in paradise right now. And we'll get to join them soon."

"But only if we accept god's love," the other added.

It was unbelievable, unacceptable, completely insane. But something stirred inside of him. He realized that this strange, improbable pair had brought him exactly what he needed.

"Nate," he mumbled, "Emily."

"I'm sorry," he-bot said, "What did you say? I couldn't hear you."

"I said," Jack cleared his throat, "I said that I got a message from god, too."

"Wonderful!" the she-bot somehow managed to smile even wider. "Would you like to share it with us?"

Jack slowly raised his left arm and pressed it against the screen.

He-bot's eyes flickered towards the arm. The smile faltered as realization dawned, then disappeared.

She-bot's smile shrank, then returned. This time, though, it was different, tighter.

Almost human.

They began backing down off his front step. "Well, uh," he-bot stuttered out, "We meet at ten o'clock on Sunday mornings. Um, we'll see you there. Maybe."

Jack pushed open the screen door and stepped out of the house. "No," he said, raising his right arm, "Stay. I insist."

The pair stopped in their tracks.

"When you see your god," Jack said, "Tell him I have a message for him."

"W-what?" the man asked, terror in his eyes.

"He took my son and it's his fault my wife is dead. Tell him he's an asshole."

Jack's finger tightened on the trigger.

The woman dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No," she cried, "Please, no."

He tugged the trigger. The man collapsed.

The woman fell on to him. "No," she sobbed, "God, no. Claire, Jeffy, oh, god, why you, too?"

For the first time Jack noticed that both were wearing wedding rings. The gun dropped to his side. He looked down at the sidewalk, hoping to blink the tableau away, hoping that if he looked up he would learn that he hadn't just become a monster. The shell from his shot had somehow managed to land by his right foot. His name was still on the shell, staring up at him.

His gun came up once more. He pressed it to his chin. This time there was no thought, no hesitation, no regret.

The holocaust was finally complete.

The End of the World, Part 6

2008-07-11T22:13:00.000-07:00

Oooh, it's a tragedy
So completely, it's almost Greek

Jack opened his eyes slowly, drawn back towards consciousness by the tinny sound coming through a barely working speaker and the general feeling that something was not right.

And if I was to be hard pressed
I'd lie and say I could not care less

Through the shattered windshield the highway stretched out in front of him. Over his head. He was upside down.

Yeeeaaaaah, I hope you have a lonely life
Yeeeeaaaah, I hope you have a lonely life
A lonely life

His mp3 player swung back and forth across his peripheral vision, still attached to the free-hanging cable connecting it to that single working speaker. He ripped it free and stared at it for a moment. Local H, it said, "White Belt Boys," Twelve Angry Months. It didn't know what had happened. It didn't care. All his anger, confusion, and frustration focused on the impertinent device and he threw it at the asphalt.

The seat belt was biting in to his shoulder and waist, reminding him of the precariousness of his situation. He reached for the release and tucked his chin as close in to his chest as possible. As he began to press down, he closed his eyes tight and tried to brace for the impact.

As the seat belt withdrew it caught his left shoulder and he ended up hitting the ceiling hard on his right side.

"Fuck."

His left arm flopped out of the car and pain ripped through it as tiny chunks of tempered glass from what was once his side window ground in to his skin.

"Dammit!"

He pulled his arm back in to the car and rubbed his right elbow. Once he had his bearings, he turned to his wife.

Emily was lying on the ceiling, pressed hard in to the passenger side bulkhead, still clutching Nate's empty pajamas in her bloody hands. She was completely still.

"Emily?" Jack asked, reaching out towards her face. "Hey, babe, wake up."

She didn't respond.

It took him a moment to realize why she didn't stir, why her head seemed to be lying at a funny angle to the rest of her body.

"Emily!" He shouted at her, fighting back the panicked tears that were filling his eyes. "Emily!" He grabbed her wrist and shook it violently. "Wake up, Emily!"

She remained obstinately silent.

"It's okay, Emily," he said, withdrawing his hand. "I'll go get help. You just stay right there. It will all be okay. I'll be right back."

He crawled out of the broken windshield and climbed painfully to his feet in time to see a pair of military Humvees swing out of the eastbound lanes and bounce across the median. He raised his bloody left arm to signal them.

A sudden realization shot through him. He'd broken the curfew. They'd probably arrest him, maybe send him to Leavenworth. As the lead Humvee pulled to a stop in front of the wrecked car the image of a troop of stern soldiers with draw weapons filled his mind.

He imagined staring down the barrel of a loaded M16, imagined watching a finger tighten on the trigger.

Somewhere deep down inside of him he hoped that was exactly what would happen.

The Humvees' doors opened. A gray-haired, unshaven man climbed wearily down from the driver's seat of the lead vehicle. "Sir," he asked, walking slowly up to Jack, "Sir, are you okay?"

Jack stared at the man and slowly read the word Wilkins on his name badge. As the other six soldiers assembled, he noticed that none of them were aiming weapons at them. None of the soldiers were even armed. They stared at him and his ruined car with sunken eyes that peered out of haggard faces.

"Sir," Wilkins repeated. Jack realized he was probably in charge, but had no idea what his rank insignia meant. "Sir, are you okay?"

Jack finally found his voice. "My," he croaked out, waving his arm vaguely back towards the car, "My wife. My...my son."

Wilkins bit down hard on his lower lip and seemed to fight back tears for a moment. "Jackson," he said after a moment, "Check it out."

Jack turned and watched as one of the soldiers dropped to his knees and carefully crawled through the Maserati's passenger window. He emerged a moment later, ashen faced. He shook his head slowly.

A single tear ran down Wilkins's cheek. He reached in to the breast pocket of his fatigues and produced a picture of an adorable smiling blond girl behind a cake with nine candles. "This is my Carrie," he said. "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Jackson reached in to his pocket and produced his wallet. "This is Johnny," he said, opening up the wallet to reveal a picture of an infant in a red stocking cap. "It's his first Christmas. My girl Jenny and I were so happy."

One of the other soldiers spoke up. "I got a kid sister," he said. It occurred to Jack that he looked young enough to be a kid himself. "After my dad died of cancer I pretty much ended up raising her myself. I don't know what's happened to her today."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Wilkins broke down and began crying. Jack and the rest of the soldiers stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then joined him in his grief.

The End of the World, Part 5

2008-07-10T21:26:00.000-07:00

Twenty minutes later the western horizon began to brighten. "We're coming up on the Quad Cities," Jack said. "Here's hoping we make it through."

He worked the interchange between I-88 and I-80, shocked that there was no sign of law enforcement anywhere to be found. When they finally caught sight of the urban sprawl that made up the dense collection of river towns he figured out why.

The Quad Cities were on fire.

"What the hell?" Emily asked, clutching Nate to her chest. She'd managed to change his diaper, although necessity had forced her to chuck the used one out the window. It was rotting on the shoulder somewhere around Sterling. "It looks like a war zone down there."

"It is," Jack said, catching sight of a convoy of Hummvees and canvas sided trucks making their way down a street. "Looks like they've got the Army out in force."

As they drew closer he made out a line of fire trucks at the nearest edge of the giant fire flanked by what appeared to be more Army vehicles. They seemed no match for the huge conflagration gobbling everything in its path. He could see no activity of any sort nearer to the highway. The Cities' loss appeared to be their gain.

Jack opened the throttle again, worried that his window would soon close. The engine revved, the speedometer swept past 150 to 160. 170.

The Quad Cities were soon in his rear view mirror. He looked in to the bright splotch of the fire, amazed at how it seemed to light the horizon. With mounting horror he realized that it wasn't just the fire brightening the view.

"You know," he said, looking for a way to distract himself from the truth, "This isn't exactly the way I'd visualized my first road trip in this car."

"Me, neither," Emily said absently, bouncing Nate up and down on her shoulder.

"I mean, I kind of figured that I'd be putting on my sunglasses and cranking up the stereo. You know?"

"Yeah. I know."

"I, uh, I think I'll put on some music."

"Okay. Not too loud."

Jack plugged his mp3 player in to the stereo and called up Local H's Twelve Angry Months. Pushed by the music, the encroaching dawn, and his own sense of desperation, he pressed the gas pedal to the firewall and watched the Maserati's tach jump to the red line.

The end came quickly, unexpectedly.

They reached an anonymous leftward curve in the road followed by a shallow downward slope and an overpass. It was the sort of thing a Maserati GranTurismo S could handle easily, even at full speed, assuming the driver was capable and paying attention to the road. Jack was neither. A night of fitful, barely restful sleep followed by over an hour of mind-numbing speed under a cloud of gnawing terror had bent his mind nearly to the breaking point.

It didn't help that at nearly the exact moment the car reached that curve, the first ray of the new day's sunlight pierced the Maserati's rear window, filling the car with radiant light.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his baby's blue cotton jumper deflate. The world seemed to slow down as he turned toward his wife in disbelief.

Emily's eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open and her lips curled back as a look of pure anguish set in on her face. Her fingers snapped closed, clutching at the impossibly empty pajamas. Her jaw worked slowly, forming the shape of an unspoken word.

The car lurched. Time snapped back to normal.

Jack swung his eyes back to the road in time to see the too-quickly approaching shoulder. Panic took over and he jerked the wheel to the left.

Time slowed once again.

Tires screeched on dry pavement.

Eerie silence.

The horizon lazily rotated counterclockwise.

They were airborne.

An answered prayer

2008-07-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

I knew as soon as it happened that it was God's doing. What was it, something like five percent of the adult population that disappeared, and that just happened to include Mom and virtually her whole church, that had been predicting this for years? No way was that a coincidence.

But just because God had proved he existed didn't mean I was going to fall on my knees and start worshipping him. I couldn't get my head round this idea of a supposedly loving God that would split families up the way the Event did. If I could have talked to Mom about it, maybe she would have been able to explain it, or maybe not. But that was the whole point: she was gone. Everybody that could have made sense of it for me was gone, and I had to try to put it together on my own. When I first went away to college, I thought I was pretty smart, but this was way beyond me.

I tried talking to Dad about it, but he was coping in his own way. When he wasn't wallowing in guilt over all the times he'd come close to cheating on Mom, he was praying and trying to convince me I needed to join him. I told him how nasty and spiteful this God sounded, how I couldn't pray to any God who would do such a thing until I understood why, and the only reason he could give was that if I didn't kiss God's ass nicely, he might do something else even worse.

That might have suited Dad nicely, but it didn't suit me, so I didn't join in with his prayers. I did go to the church to see if the pastor guy could explain it any better, but he was too busy coming out with Bible geek stuff about how the weird preachers in Jerusalem tied in exactly with some prophecy or other. Dad just ate it all up, but it didn't come close to answering any of my questions.

I was praying though, kind of. At least, I was talking to Mom, as if she could still hear me, as if she could somehow answer me. We didn't always see eye-to-eye before, but now that she was gone I realised how many little things she'd done for me and how much I depended on her being there. I suppose I was putting on the rose-tinted glasses a bit, but the way she used to drive me nuts with her Bible quotes for every occasion didn't seem to matter as much as the fact that she was there for me and always had time to listen.

That was where things were at when we went to New York. Dad was meeting Hattie, the flight attendant he'd come closest to cheating on Mom with, and he wanted me along to prove how completely above-board everything was now. He wanted to tell her how God was behind the Event, and how she'd better get praying for the good of her soul, and he didn't get how creepy that was going to come across however I explained it. He was just utterly convinced that he was doing what God wanted him to do.

The scariest thing was, I thought he might be right.

Anyway, Hattie introduced Dad to Buck, this journalist guy who had been on his flight when the Event happened. For some reason I didn't really get, Buck wanted to interview Dad for the piece he was writing about the Event, which would have made Dad's day if he hadn't been so concerned about saving Hattie's soul. Buck and I cleared out to give him time to do that, and we spent a while wandering round the airport talking.

Well, Buck did most of the talking. I got the feeling he never really talked to anyone in depth: he seemed so grateful for the way I listened and let him pour it all out. And somehow we got drawn into flirting with each other, even though ... I mean, we didn't have a lot in common, apart from both being lonely. I guess the Event had thrown us both off a bit, and it was easier to hold onto someone else than to stand up on our own. Part of me felt like a bit of flirting was nothing to be ashamed of, but another part of me felt terrible at the way I was leading him on. Not to mention, how could I be thinking of things like that so soon after Mom...?

I didn't want to sit around listening to Buck interviewing Dad, so I sneaked away to the ladies' room. Hattie had the same idea, and we ended up standing awkwardly in front of the mirrors. Just looking at her, I could tell that however bad I'd thought Dad's salvation pitch was going to be, he'd somehow managed to make it worse. If this was what being on God's team could do, I wanted no part of it, ever.

But I didn't want to believe this was what God was really all about. I already knew how much power he had, and if he was that much of an asshole - I didn't want to think about it. But Mom had been on God's team for much longer, and she had never done anything like that. Maybe Dad was just making mistakes because he was new to the whole thing. You don't know how much I wanted to believe that.

So as soon as I had a minute to myself, I said another of my "prayers" to Mom. Asked her if she could sort of have a word with God, get him to send me some kind of sign. Just to let me know that Dad was wrong, that this wasn't the whole of God's will. And you know how sometimes when you pray, you get a calm, hopeful feeling inside as if someone really was listening? When I'd finished praying, that's how I felt.

There was still the problem of Buck. I still hadn't worked out whether I had anything to be ashamed of, but I felt like I did need to apologise for leading him on and make it clear that I didn't want things to go any further. The last thing I needed in my life was relationship drama. So I hung around after the meal to try to explain, but I couldn't find the right words. He seemed to think my talking to him meant I was interested, and I ended up giving him a vague brush-off about how he would have to look me up if he was ever in Chicago, which wasn't one of my better moments. He said something intense about how that would be sooner than I thought, which kind of gave me the creeps.

And when I got on the plane home the next day, who was sitting right next to me? I don't suppose it's a particularly impressive answer to a prayer, coming from someone who has the power to vanish millions of people in an instant, but maybe he couldn't be bothered to do more. After all, I was only the daughter of one of his believers. Besides, it got the message across effectively enough.

Slippery Minds

2008-07-06T15:58:00.000-07:00

"Did you honestly think your pathetic half prayer would save you from my grasp Cameron?" Buck heard in his mind very clearly in the voice of Nicholia Carpathia, who was broadcasting his thoughts as he discussed petty politics with the men at the table. "I'll let you watch for right now, please, do not get up."

Every second next to Carpathia was toxic to Buck, like microphone feeding back directly into his brain. He wanted to plug his ears, or bite his lip, or jump out a window, or something to take his mind off the dull ring in his subconscious. He wanted to, but all he could do was watch. Anytime he made a motion to do anything other than sit and watch his mind filled with images of the security detail surrounding Jonathan Stonagal ventilating him at the slightest twitch.

"Now to the true business," Carpathia announced in a regal fashion, "Your promotion Mr. Stonagal, will see you far too busy to handle your usual business affairs. I will take charge of them from now on, please relinquish all your assets and files to me."

"What?" roared Stonagal, blood rushing to his face, fixing his eyes into a glare that would have killed its target had it not been directed at the iron constitution of Nicholia Carpathia. "Have you forgotten whose plan this is? I've been pulling the strings for decades, you're nothing but a stepping stone, an errand boy. I will not stand down now that my work is almost complete."

"Please Mr. Stonagal," calmly replied Nicholia, smirking in the face of stare that withered the house plants behind him. "I would not want to have to abuse the great power that has been recently invested in me to deal with you."

Stonagal was shocked, anyone could tell that Carpathia was referring to much more than the powers of the UN, but Stonagal seemed to know exactly what he meant. Flustered Stonagal went into a momentary blinking fit, his eyes desperately darted around the room finally coming to rest for a brief moment on Buck. Quickly Stonagal's facial expression changed to a complete poker face, staring Carpathia straight in the eye. The only thing that could be gathered from Stonagals body language was that he was bracing himself for something.

"Guards, kill the pretender anti-christ," Stonagal thundered, making a violent gesture towards Carpathia.

Nicholia put up his hand, and the body guards made no move.

A single chuckle escaped Carpathia's curled lips, "Poor choice of words," said Carpathia then clenched his fist.

Stonagal's guards turned on their heels, and opened fire, going for clean body shots, minimal blood splatter.

Just before Stonagal slumped over for the final time, the feedback in Bucks head crackled and ceased. He could think again somehow, but he thought it was not a good time to make a move.

Todd Cothran did not share the same reservation for action. Stonagals men turned towards him, and moving to cut the head off the snake, Cothran quickly un-holstered his Colt .45, drawing a bead on Nicholia. Far too late, impossibly it seemed as if Nicholia somehow had a gun in his hand the whole time, and shot Cothran through the heart before the Colts safety was off. Cothran fell inelegantly forward, and his corpse smashed into the table, letting the gun slide out of his hand on impact.

Brushing the debris from the fired bullet off of his suit and getting straight back to business, Carpathia addressed Stonagal's now former head of security, "Bring me his files, I want to make the transition as soon as... Wait."

Nicholia quickly jerked his head to his left and saw Buck Williams trembling, pointing Cothran's gun across the room at him.

"Don't move," Buck stammered as he slowly backed toward the door, directed more at Stonagal's men than Carpathia.

Carpathia didn't flinch, he knew Buck couldn't hit him if he was two feet away, let alone twenty. He raised his arm to order the Guards to fire, but Buck let out a shot before he could say the words. The bullet hit nothing but ceiling tiles, but it provided enough of a distraction for Buck to dash out the door. There was no point going after him, the hall outside was a maze of hallways that all lead to an exit.

"Remind me to repeal the fire codes as soon as I get back to my offices Plank," sighed Carpathia as he sat down.

"Sir, I thought that was a marvelous display of power otherwise," replied Plank obediently.

"Too bad it is all wasted, we can not let my inner council see this as weakness," said Carpathia as he buried his heads in his hands, the rest of the men in attendance sat in a silent stupor. "Apparently Mr. Stonagal freed Mr. Williams of the mind control just to spite me, it was all his limited powers could accomplish, how childish of him. I shall take this memory from them, in the meantime find someone who looks similar enough to Stonagal to stage this again. I think we can do without a Cameron Williams next time around, arrange for an accident to befall him."

"Yes sir," Steve Plank responded quickly as Stonagal's former security guards removed the bodies from the room and prepared for take two.

L.B.: Chekhov's GIRAT

2008-07-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

To me the thing that's menacing about this scene is the leader who not only inspires fanatical loyalty to his eeeevil cause, but who is such a ruthless badass that he will kill his own guys at the drop of a hat just to make the point that he will kill YOU at the drop of a hat too, so don't ever every do anything that might make him even momentarily angry.

The only problem is that having intimidated all his followers he then gets them to forget it, and tries to claim public sympathy as "OMG, this guys friend just shot his other friend." That's more pity inspiring than sympathetic loyalty inspiring, though... not exactly what he needs here.

The other point is that in the movie Kirk realizes that the bible says the anti-christ will proclaim himself God... Nicky Rocklumps doesn't really do that at all here.

I would have played it something like this: Un-st. Nicky talks about the new heaven on Earth they're going to build.
"You are of course with me on this. It's important that you all believe in me. The work we are going to achieve here will take faith, devotion, and obedience."

Then when Stonagal and Cothran raise some minor type of objection, Rocksy ostentatiously ignores them and speaks directly to the body guard.

"You would be Mr. Otterness, no?"
"Yes sir."
"And your job here is to protect Mr. Stonagal is it not."
"Yes sir."
"You must be concerned that Mr. Cothran here is undermining the work of your employer Mr. Stonagal."
Exuding a blank professional stillness the guard said nothing.
"This is a cause we all need Scott. I can call you Scott, can't I."
"Sir." The guard shifted his feet.
"Scott, Mr. Cothran is a grave danger to the works of your employer. He is becoming an unreliable agent for the needs of us all. Only you can help now Scott. You know what you need to do."
The guard rocked on his heels slowly, and blinked twice. Then reached to his belt and removed a small blunt pistol.
"No, Otterness. Put it down." Stonagal chimed in. The gun raised. "I'm ordering you to stop Otterness! This is not the way."
"You know your duty." Carpathia demurred. There was a bang and Todd-Cothrane crumpled off his seat.
Stonagal turned white. After a moment he unfroze and turning back to the table, sat heavily. "You've made your point."
"Have I?" Carpathia pressed his palms together. "And what point would that be exactly?"
"We're all in this together." Stonagal hardened into a poker face. Buck was impressed at the composure he was able to pull together.
"Indeed."
"Moving on," Stonagal put his hands behind his head in a show of ease, though Buck was sure he saw them tremble. "What else is on the agenda today?"
"So now you're pacing our meetings for us are you Jonathan?" Carpathia moved and stood behind the man. "That's most kind of you to lend us the benefit of your authority. Is there anything else we can do for you? Can I perhaps help move along your vision of peace on Earth?"
Stonagal scanned the eyes of the other representatives, but seemed unable to return any of their gazes.
"Because we can't bring Eden back if we're all working at cross-purposes Jonathan. We have to be singing out of the same song book Jonathan. All playing our own parts. If someone plays the wrong part, then the whole venture fails." Carpathia lifted his finger tips from the back of Stonagal's chair, and took a step towards the guard. "And we can't have that can we Scott?"
Scott Otterness hadn't moved since he had released his trigger. He was still gazing just past the end of his extended firearm, through the smoke still curling from its muzzle.
"You wouldn't want to stand between the 6 billion people of this planet and paradise would you Scott? Personally, yourself? That would be a lot to have on your conscience now Scott, wouldn't it. I don't know how a man could live with such guilt. How can your professional duty stand in the way of your obligation to do right by the entire rest of the population of our lonely little planet?"
The room was so quiet that everyone heard the scrunch of Otterness' feet pivoting on the marble floor.
The first bullet missed. It burst through the back of the chair beside Stonagal's head, leaving a dark puncture in his black leather halo. Stonagal's only motion was to close his eyes. The second bullet hit its mark. Stonagal's cheek, marbled with its fine labyrinth of capillaries, exploded outwards, and he lurched forward, his head landing with a crack on the round mahogany table. And then he was still, as a red crown expanded slowly outwards, covering the smoky swirls in the wood.

Eventually Carpathia broke the silence. "We've all just witnessed a tragedy gentlemen. We are none of us safe in doing God's work. I believe I was talking earlier about genuine humility and faith in the cause. It's the only protection any of us have. Madness and enemies lurk in every false security that we seek." He turned easily to Buck. "Mr. Cameron, I'm sure you will see to it that the world hears of our plight here. It is important they know about these forces of discord and chaos that have struck such a blow to our noblest of institutions this afternoon. To all the rest, we have work to be done. I suggest you go prepare yourselves."

As Carpathia strode to the door, the rest of the room suddenly came alive. Security personnel dived to cover their clients, and Scott Otterness flew backwards in a hail of gun fire.

Two New Features

2008-07-02T16:53:00.000-07:00

Sorry, a quick bit of housekeeping. I went ahead and updated the RSS feed links in the sidebar to the latest version and at the same time added a blog roll for those authors that I know have blogs (that one's down at the bottom of the sidebar). If you are an author on Right Behind and your blog isn't listed, just use the email link in the "About Exharpazo" section to let me know and I'll add it.

There's always something else

2008-06-23T15:28:00.000-07:00

David slumped in front of the television, no longer taking in the images of weeping parents and grim-faced experts.

His ex-girlfriends had both called, five minutes apart, to confirm what he had known and not wanted to believe. His son was gone. His daughter was gone. It still didn't seem real: how could so many children just disappear like that?

A knock on the door dragged him out of his seat - perhaps it was news. Not much chance of that, maybe, but he had to keep believing.

Clare stood on the doorstep, her eyes red and puffy from crying. "Can I come in?"

David shrugged. "If you like."

"She's gone," Clare said. "The only thing I ever did right in my life. I didn't even know ... I was asleep."

"I know." She had called him so many times, crying over her failed relationships and her failed business and her epic credit card debts. It had become almost a ritual, that she would say she'd failed at everything she tried and he would reassure her that she had a happy, healthy daughter who loved her more than anyone else in the world. But now her daughter was gone. "How are you coping?"

"How are you coping? Did your boy...?"

According to the news, not quite all children had vanished. Most of the survivors were teenagers, but here and there a few as young as ten remained. He shook his head. "They're both gone."

She started crying again. He wanted to snap that she didn't even know his children: she'd seen his daughter maybe twice in her life, and never seen his son except in pictures. But he knew she was most likely crying for her daughter, or crying over the incomprehensible scale of the disaster.

Finally, she fished a soggy tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose noisily. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just ... I've lost Elspeth, and when I look at you I just see that same loss, and it's even harder to bear. I'm not making any sense."

"None of this makes any sense." He was used to having an answer when she cried, and he had nothing. He was dangerously close to tears himself.

"I was going to go up to the bridge," she said. "She was my only reason to go on living, and now ... But I remembered that thing about, 'There's always something else you can do.' Do you think that's still true?"

Was anything still true, in a world where your children could just disappear? "I don't know." He reached for her and pulled her close. "Maybe."

They held onto each other for a while. It didn't fill the gap his children had left, but it made the emptiness easier to bear. There was still someone in this cold, childless world that he could hold, that he could-

"Clare, what are you doing?"

"I can't live without her," she said, unfastening his belt. "You don't know what it was like before she was born, when I had nobody. I can't go back to that. I can't."

"No, but you can't ... this isn't the way to cope. This might only be temporary. You can't just ... replace her."

"I have to do something. Otherwise I might as well just jump off that bridge."

David thought about all the bits of his children's lives that he'd missed, one way and another. Didn't he want, deep down, to try again and get it right this time? Not to replace his children, no, but when they came back, he could tell them they had a new brother or sister. He could find a way, somehow, to take care of them all.

It was wrong, of course, but so was a world where your children vanished without so much as a warning. And she wanted it badly enough for both of them, so he let her have her way.

Weird Science

2008-06-11T16:33:00.000-07:00

L.B. Weird Science, Left Behind pp. 6-8 and L.B. Peace in the Middle East, Left Behind, pp. 8-9.

Pete had been in Israel during the attack for an interview with Fyvush Goldstein, a chemist that had been chosen as the National View's Person of the Year after arduous conversation by the editorial staff. True, Pete hadn't technically been privy to that meeting but it was hard not to know what was going on when you could hear the managing editor screaming "But he's only a chemist!" from the newsroom.

Goldstein had sneaked into the spot for two reasons. First, no one could deny that he was an important chemist. He'd been responsible for the major biotech advances that Israel had been making in the last five years. Not personally, of course, but through his position as trusted science adviser to the Prime Minister.

For example, Israel's recent focus on hydroponics had spawned several large state sponsored agriculture projects in the previously desolate areas on the eastern edge of the country. They already grew more produce in a year than Brazil did, and just before Pete's trip they'd announced several more installations.

He'd also overseen the establishment of Israel's in vitro meat program, which had been established much more quickly and much more effectively than anyone had predicted. True, a few rabbis had declared that the non-animal meat wasn't kosher, but that was just a small segment of Israel; religious hardliners and the majority of Jews agreed that the new product was kosher as pickles.

The real reason that he'd been nominated was because of his surprisingly effective social efforts. Goldstein had hired and trained many Palestinians and used his connections to guarantee their passage into Israel proper. When his programs started to pay off to the tune of millions of dollars in grants and technology patents, not to mention the profits from the sales of the produce themselves, he hired even more Palestinians to work alongside their Israeli counterparts. When the conservatives had complained, Goldstein would point to his massive successes, and then call in his government support to back him up.

Attacks in Israel had slowly declined. Hamas had eventually renounced violence, especially since Palestinians were among those now being killed in the Tel Aviv bombings. With better security came looser travel restrictions and what could, in the next few years, become the implementation of a two state strategy for peace.

True, things weren't perfect. There were still problems with Zionist expansion on the West Bank, and there was still the occasional bombing but things were looking so much more positive now that Palestinians didn't have to resort to suicide bombings to feed their families. Goldstein himself had ironically become a popular figure among the younger Palestinians due to circulating rumors that he stood up to the Israeli government to make sure that Palestinian innovations resulted in patents held by Palestinian citizens.

There was also Nobel Peace Prize buzz in the air. As much as some of the editors railed for some actor or politician, at the end of the day it was Fyvush Goldsteing that got the profile.

Fyvush had met Pete in his house, a modest building not too far from the presumed border between Israel and Palestine. Two graduate students were hunched over a set of plans in his office, arguing loudly. One was Israeli, one was Palestinian, but they weren't consumed with political differences but rather differences of opinion on the design of a new air compressor for a new hydroponics installation.

"I hear you want to talk with me about my fascination with Romanian opera," Goldstein had said with sparkling eyes as they finally sat down.

Pete had been amazed at the Professor's self effacement. He called the hydroponics and in vitro meat programs "the result of scientists far more brilliant than I" and described his hiring practices as "the best effort of a single man." He completely discounted his role in the reduction of violence. "The current political situation is something that hundreds, if not thousands, of people have been working toward for years. To say that I had more influence had more than all of the people that have come before me is beyond the realm of possibility, and dismissive to their hard work. I simply do what I can, and if I manage to influence a few people's perceptions, that will be enough for me."

Goldstein had gone on to win that Nobel prize, and hadn't touched a cent of the money. He'd set up scholarships with it instead, and used his speech to try to rally people to environmental and social causes that they believed in.

Pete's profile on Goldstein had been a high point in his career. Now on his way to London, he was hoping to see a few old friends on his way to do an interview with the British Education Secretary about the vocational programs that they were hoping to sell to failing American school systems. Not nearly so exciting, but at least the job gave him free reign to travel and talk to interesting people.

He checked his email, checked the East coast time on his watch, and tried to figure out how much longer this flight was going to be.

Pete sighed and sunk back in his chair. At least he was in business class.

taken

2008-06-07T14:45:00.000-07:00

Jeff Martin had never liked sleeping alone. It was, he supposed, one of the reasons it had taken him so long to walk away from the farce that had been his marriage. That, and the kids. The fear of hellfire hadn’t played much of a role in it all. He’d lost that fear long ago, around the time he’d actually picked up a Bible for himself and started comparing its contents to the good Pastor’s weekly “messages.” No, religion had played no real part in the messy decisions of his younger self, only a desire to be normal.

And what could be more normal, he thought now, than to miss your family when they’re away? Stan had flown out two nights ago for a big medical conference in London, and Brandi had the kids this week. The little townhouse was quiet, far too quiet for sleep. And so, he was sitting up at the kitchen table, leafing listlessly through a three-month-old People magazine when the phone rang.

“Jeff? Jeff, are you there?”

“I’m here.” Jeff didn’t bother asking whether Stan had any idea what time it was in Ontario. He sounded frantic. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You need to turn on the news. Right now. And then you need to call Brandi.” When Jeff didn’t immediately respond, Stan shouted into the phone. “Jeff! Jeff? Do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” said Jeff, reaching for the TV remote. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Is this about the girls? I really don’t think Brandi . . .” His voice trailed off as the words of the CNN reporter registered. For several long moments, he just sat where he was, phone in hand, staring at the TV.

“Jeff!?”

His throat felt like sandpaper. Slowly, thickly, he forced himself to swallow, and to take a breath. “Yeah.”

“Call Brandi. Go over there if you have to.”

“Is it true?” Stupid question. If it wasn’t true, would Stan have called him in the middle of the night? “How do I stop it?”

Stan’s voice was suddenly very quiet. “I don’t know,” he said. “Just get over there. Take your cell. You’ve got hours still. I’ll call you as soon as I find out anything else.”

“Right,” said Jeff. Then, he stood up. No time to sit here numbly. He had to get to Brandi’s place. Had to see the girls. “Right,” he said, more decisively this time. “I’ll grab my cell. Call me as soon as you can.”

“I will,” Stan promised. “God, that sounds lame, doesn’t it? But I will. I’ll call you every hour and tell you what I’ve found out.” A short pause. “Whatever happens, I love you.”

Jeff nodded silently, but couldn’t bring himself to say it back before he hung up the phone. Not now. God, what if those horrible pastors had been right all along? He grabbed his coat and his cell and ran for the door. “Hang on girls, I’m coming.”

He called Brandi from the car, and before she could snarl at him for calling in the middle of the night, told her to turn on the news. “I’m on my way over,” he said, and hung up before she could say anything.

The drive to his ex-wife’s place normally took less than twenty minutes, but with every precious second counting down to the end of the world, he ignored the posted speed limits and made it there in exactly twelve. When he pulled up, Brandi was standing out on the street, loading up her shiny little two-door car. Maddie and Emily were already in the back seat, looking sleepy and confused. He called out to them as he flung open his car door, but Brandi ignored him. Maddie saw him and waved.

“You know what this is, Jeff,” said Brandi as he approached.

“I know what it might be,” he replied. “Where are you planning on going?” He himself had had some vague idea about driving west to buy some time, maybe keep the girls safe until someone could figure out for sure what was happening, and if it could be stopped.

Brandi planted herself between him and the car. Between him and his daughters. Hands on hips, she met his gaze squarely. “The Lord is calling his people home,” she said, “and we’re driving east to meet Him.” After a moment, her face softened. “You don’t have to stay behind, you know. There’s still time to get right with God.”

“You can’t know for sure it’s the Rapture!” Jeff said. She was going to take them. Going to take Maddie and Emily and drive them into the very danger they should be running from.

Brandi’s voice was calm and cool. “Are you willing to risk your soul on the possibility that it isn’t?”

“Are you willing to risk our daughters’ lives on the possibility that it is?” Maddie was watching them. Seven years old, she had already seen her parents fighting more times than Jeff had ever liked to consider. She never liked to see it, but this time was worse. She would see the fear in his face, hear it in his voice.

“We’re going, Jeff.” Brandi had opened the driver’s door and was getting into the car now. Not believing what was happening, Jeff hesitated for one second too long before reacting.

“No!” he cried, flinging himself forward just as the door slammed shut. He grabbed at the handle, but Brandi had already locked the door. In the back seat, Maddie was crying, confusion and fright etched on her innocent face. He couldn’t see Emily at all, just the hump of her favourite yellow blanket, under which she often hid when she was scared.

“You can’t just take them!” he cried. “They’re my kids, too!”

Brandi rolled down her window just a crack. “You’ve still got time,” she said. “If you get right with God, you’ll see them again.” She smiled as she turned the key in the ignition, her expression as close to affectionate as he’d seen it since well before the divorce. “We’ll all see each other again soon. Goodbye, Jeff. And good luck.”

She turned around and murmured something soothing to the girls as she pulled out of the driveway, doing her best to distract them from the fact that their father was running alongside the car, banging on the windows and yelling. As she picked up speed, Jeff fell behind. The last thing he saw before they turned the corner was Maddie’s face, wide frightened eyes and tousled hair.

And then they were gone.

Going Underground

2008-06-04T16:57:00.000-07:00

There was a burst of static, and the crackling cries of James and Fatima’s son, Michael, flooded out of the flashing baby monitor.

“Oh, God, what time is it?” muttered Fatima, reaching across the bedside table for her glasses with one hand and fishing around blindly for the alarm clock with the other. It was just gone half-five in the morning; she could hear the dustmen working the streets below.

James began to open his eyes and lazily turned to face Fatima. He let out an indistinct yawn/groan that Fatima took to mean “Can you feed him? I’ve got work in the morning”.

Fatima rolled her eyes and clambered out of bed. Now less drowsy, she wandered into Michael’s nursery – the air was thick with the pungent smell of full nappies. As he was lifted from his crib and carried him to the changing mat, Michael gurgled gleefully. Fatima smiled; his once indistinct noises were starting to sound like speech, and she was sure that he’d be talking within a few weeks. She tickled his nose, and he giggled appreciatively.

Once she’d slipped him into a clean nappy, Fatima headed into the combined dining room/living room and turned the TV on to BBC 2. She always had trouble getting back to sleep at this time, and had got into the habit of watching the early morning “Programmes for Schools” slot – there was something so relaxing and soporific about lying on the sofa, with warm blanket and a mug of hot chocolate, as a woman with a soothing regional accent recited times tables or explained the Haber process.

But something was different this time. The educational programmes had given way to urgent news flashes – children across Europe and Africa had been disappearing in their millions as the sun rose. Fatima sat bolt upright, splattering hot chocolate all over the beige sofa.

“As the sun rises across the Carpathian mountains behind me”, said a reporter, struggling to be heard over a grainy videophone connection, “millions of ordinary families are waking up to an awful truth: their children are gone. The deadly ‘wave’ that sweeps across the planet appears to be inescapable and unstoppable.

“The wave began only one hour ago, at the edge of the Mediterranean basin, but already a number of groups are positing explanations as to what may be causing these disappearances, with reasons ranging from spontaneous human combustion, to alien abduction, to the end of the world: a number of Islamic scholars have claimed that the disappearances herald the beginning of Qayaamah, the ‘Day of Gathering’, while some Christian sects in America are putting forward the idea that the wave is ‘The Rapture’, a time of…”

By now, Fatima could scarcely hear the reporter. Sunrise… children disappearing… she felt numb. She might only have a couple of hours left with her son – she had to make them count. But then, so did every other parent in London. Fatima suddenly pictured the playgroup she worked at abandoned and deserted Suddenly, she leapt to her feet and ran into the corridor. Just outside the door to their flat was a bright red fire alarm box. Fatima swung her elbow as hard as she could against the fragile glass pane. Instantly, sirens began wailing throughout the building. Muffled curses erupted from the surrounding flats as lights flickered on behind frosted glass windows.

The first people out were James and Fatima’s neighbours, Morgan and Jane Okereke and their children Olivia and William, all of whom were wearing their pyjamas and snug dressing gowns. William, their youngest, was clutching a teddy bear and staring wide-eyed at Fatima, who had just realised to her embarrassment she was standing in the corridor in just her nightie.

“You’ve got to turn on your television!” Fatima told them, “Just… turn on your television and watch the news. Children are disappearing. It’s… they disappear with the sunrise.”

Fatima realised that as she explained it to the sleepy parents who were now congregating in the corridor, it seemed to sound more and more ridiculous, and yet more and more terrifying at the same time.

By now, James had climbed out of bed and was now stood in the doorway, carrying Michael in his arms. Fatima rushed over and explained the situation.

“We need to get away from the sunrise. We… we just have to!” said Fatima, holding back the tears.

“But the sunrise moves at over 1,000 mph” – James was a physics teacher at the local secondary school – “there’s no way we can out run it.”

“We don’t need to. We just need to keep him away from the Sun. We could… we could board up all the windows, we could go underground.”

An idea flashed through Fatima’s mind.

“Of course, the Underground!” she yelled, “If we take our children to the Underground, we may be able to hide them until this all passes over!”

A murmur of approval travelled through the crowd of parents. As the fire alarm continued to wail, families darted back into their flats and began packing food, water, clothes and nappies.

Ten minutes later, still in their nightwear, Fatima and James joined the crowd of parents all clutching children as they ran down the stairwell: James was carrying Michael while Fatima clutched the travel bag she’d filled with water, sandwiches and the baby changing kit. Halfway down, the group met a pair of firemen, sent to investigate the alarm – Fatima tried to stay as nonchalant as possible (given the circumstances) until she was sure they’d gone past.

Bethnal Green was the nearest tube station to the block of flats where the families lived, and the fact that it had been used as an air-raid shelter in WWII made it the ideal hiding place. As they turned the corner onto Bethnal Green Road, though, Fatima noticed they had clearly not been the only families to come to this conclusion. Hundreds of families were filing down the steps, under the watchful eyes of swarms of police officers.

James tried to dial as many friends and family as possible, to warn them and tell them to seek cover, but he was always met by the same computerised “the network is currently unavailable” message. He switched on the phone’s built-in radio and tuned to the news. By now, the wave was deep into France, and would be crossing the Channel in a matter of minutes. The first, confused reports were coming in of adults being taken – a spokesman for the Vatican was claiming the Pope and a number of high-ranking cardinals had just vanished during early morning mass, leaving nothing but their robes and vestments.

Fatima and James began the long climb down to the ticket office, where they were met by sudden pandemonium. Hundreds of people were trying to squeeze through a handful of barriers. Some were scrambling over the sides, others trying to lift pushchairs and prams over the gates. Police officers were trying in vain to keep some calm, but for every 5 people who managed to get through the gates, 15 more were arriving from the street.

Once they had finally got through the gates, they found the stairwells down to the platforms just as packed, as people jostled to get as far from the Sun as possible. Fatima felt a sudden shove from behind – Morgan Okereke had fallen over in the scrum and, from the sickening crunch, it sounded like he’d broken his leg. Already, people were clambering over him to get down to the platform as quickly as they could. James passed Michael to Fatima and helped Morgan to his feet. With the help of Morgan’s wife, Jane, James supported Morgan as he limped slowly to the platform.

Once they got down to the tracks, things seemed much more dignified. People knew there was nowhere further to go, and were just sitting on the platform. Fatima had seen this before – she’d been on the underground during the 7/7 bombings, and had been forced to wait for hours in a tunnel with dozens of other passengers. But this seemed different. On 7/7 everyone had been jovial, sharing water and joking amongst themselves – Blitz spirit, the newspapers had called it. But here, barely anyone was even talking – the few that did spoke in voices tinged with fear. During the bombing, everyone had known, deep down, that it had happened to someone else. Here, it wasn’t some isolated incident that would affect a handful. The disappearances sweeping the globe could affect anyone and everyone down here.

The Sun was due to rise any minute now. There was a banging noise from far above as the doors to the station were closed, just to be on the safe side. Fatima clutched Michael to her chest while James helped Morgan kneel down to hug his children. There was a rumbling and gust of warm air, accompanied by a flash of light from the one of the tunnels – there must be a train due, Fatima thought, but according to the destination board, all trains were cancelled. Puzzled, she was turning her head back to the tunnel when she felt the bundle in her arms suddenly collapse and slip through her fingers.

She began scrabbling frantically around the floor, hoping she hadn’t dropped Michael, when a thousand voices all screamed at the same time. Looking around, Fatima saw the station was littered with empty children’s clothes that billowed gently in the draught from the tunnel. Fatima sank to her knees and sobbed, her cries mingling with the thousands of others that filled the stale air.

The End of the World, Part 4

2008-06-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

"I'm standing here on the eastern end of Long Island, Mike," the correspondent said from the radio. "The eastern horizon has been steadily brightening for the last half hour. The first rays of the sun should be striking us at any--" the monologue suddenly cut out, replaced by a rustling of clothing and a strange thump.

"John?" the host asked. "Hey, buddy, you there?" He paused for a moment. "Uh, folks, I have no idea what happened. My producer says we're still getting the feed. It's like John just disappeared or something. We're going to hit a commercial while we try to figure out what's going on."

Jack turned off the radio. "That was weird."

"Yeah," Emily nodded. "Think we're going to find out how things are going on the east coast?"

"Why don't you just look it up on the internet?"

She blinked a couple times. "I'm a moron," she said, pulling out her iPhone. She began tapping the screen. "I use this thing all the time except when I actually need it."

Jack shrugged. "I forgive you. Hey," he tapped her knee as a thought struck him, "I just had a thought. See if you can find out if Nate would be safe if we hid him underground. Maybe it's a matter of not letting the sun hit him."

She began tapping again. "Dazed Parisians emerge from entrance to underground tunnel," she read a caption. "'It offered no protection,' one man said, 'Our son was there one moment, then he was gone.'"

"That doesn't sound promising," Jack said.

She clicked the screen again. "Hundreds of Romans waited out the dawn in the city's tunnels and ancient catacombs," she read, "Only to find that they suffered the same fate as those who hadn't tried to flee." She clicked another link. "'We ran for the caves in the mountainside,' said one mother from the tiny Russian village, 'We threw rocks over the entrance and prayed for the mountains to protect us, to protect our children. It...It did nothing. My Vlad is gone. My Elena is gone.'"

"Well," Jack shook his head, "That just about kills that idea." He goosed the throttle, pushing the car nearly to 170 before deciding to back down to 160 again. They were nearly to Dixon, one of the larger towns along the I-88 corridor between Chicago and the Mississippi River. He turned the headlights off again, knowing that the southern part of Dixon nearly reached the highway and it was likely they'd be seen. As a concession to safety, he began easing down toward 120 or so. The moon was bright, but he could barely see. Forty miles per hour was way too fast for a night drive with no headlights, but he was desperate.

"Huh," Emily said, still reading off the iPhone, "This is odd. 'We were up before dawn, like always,' Zhou said, 'We were walking across the field to begin work when all of the sudden my brother was just gone. Later on I heard that children were disappearing, and wondered if it was the same thing. But my brother is nearly sixty years old. It cannot be the same thing.'"

"Maybe that's the same thing that happened to the guy on the radio," Jack ventured.

Emily nodded. "Could be. Maybe there's some sort of conspiracy going on, too."

"Hey," Jack pointed across the highway, "There's another one of those crazy buses. Cedar Rapids Evangelical Free Church."

"That's, like, the middle of Iowa," Emily scratched her head. "What are they doing here?"

"Maybe they're part of the conspiracy?"

"That's a pretty damn weird conspiracy."

"It's been a weird day."

A sudden noise from the back seat alerted them to the fact that Nate was waking up. Emily unbuckled her seatbelt and twisted around to get him out of his car seat. "How are you, bubby," she asked. He gurgled in reply.

"He reeks," Jack said.

"Yeah. I'm not entirely sure that this car was designed with an eye toward changing poopy diapers at a hundred miles per hour, though." She opened the diaper bag at her feet and began wrestling with the problem.

The End of the World, Part 3

2008-05-27T21:46:00.000-07:00

"We're going to get in to the car and drive west?" Emily asked.

Jack nodded. "We've got a full tank of gas. We should be able to get to Iowa, at least."

"Before we run out?"

"Before the sun rises."

"So what's the point?"

"It buys us some time."

"How much?"

"I don't know. Twenty minutes, maybe. But maybe, if we're lucky, it will be enough for the scientists to figure something out." Jack shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I can't just sit here. I need to do something and this is the best thing I can come up with."

Emily opened her mouth, seemingly ready to argue the point, then closed it. She nodded. "You're right. We can't fight this, but maybe we can run from it."

"Exactly."

"Wait," she held up a hand, "What if the President was wrong? What if it doesn't cross the Atlantic?"

"Then we turn around. But every minute we waste waiting to see if there's anything to worry about is two miles we could be down the road."

She nodded again. "Okay. Get the car seat out of the Prius. I'll make a snack."

Ten minutes later he brought the Maserati to life and backed it out of the driveway. Absolutely nothing was stirring in the neighborhood. Quietly, slowly, he brought the car up to speed, trying to avoid over revving the engines and keeping an eye out for police patrols.

"Uh, headlights?" Emily offered from the passenger seat.

"Not until we get on the highway," Jack replied. "I don't want anybody to see us until we're too far away to be caught."

"Oh."

The I-88 on ramp was a two minute drive from the house under normal conditions. He spent ten minutes snaking around to avoid the main roads and the higher likelihood of patrols and roadblocks, finally sneaking through an empty office complex and edging up between the bushes at the entryway to observe the ramp. His heart sank when he saw a police Tahoe was parked halfway across the road.

"Think we can beat it?" Jack asked.

"I don't think we have to worry," Emily pointed. "It's empty."

"Oh." With that he gunned the engine and screeched through a ninety-degree turn, fishtailing slightly but managing to keep all four wheels on the road and pointed in the right direction. He was doing forty by the time he hit the ramp--nearly clipping the police truck in the process--and shot through the I-Pass lane of the tollbooth at 85. The car was at 120 and climbing by the time he merged on to the empty expressway and realized he'd been holding his breath, expecting red and blue strobes from all directions.

Nothing happened. The car's acceleration and the sound of rubber on road were the only sounds other than breathing, beating hearts and a gurgle from Nate in the back seat. "I think we made it," Jack finally said, as much to break the silence as anything else.

"They didn't," Emily said.

An old Chevy was parked on the side of the road, its hood up. As they passed, Jack caught a flash of a desperate tableau illuminated in the stark light of a street lamp. A man stood at the front of the car, desperately hammering at something on the engine while a woman looked on, clutching two small children.

A quarter mile down the road they saw a Honda crumpled against a guard rail. A hundred yards past the car they passed a family running down the shoulder, the parents half carrying, half dragging their children behind them.

"Maybe we should stop," Emily said, "Try to help them."

"You know we can't," Jack said, nearly choking on the words, "There's nothing we could do." He pressed down a little harder on the gas.

As the car neared its top speed he couldn't help but chuckle.

"What?" Emily asked.

"My Maserati goes one eighty-five," Jack sang, "They took my license, now I don't drive."

"I've got a limo, ride in the back," Emily added in the next line.

"Roll up the windows in case I'm attacked," they finished together.

The car redlined and the image of that broken down Chevy suddenly sprang in to his mind. He backed the car down to 150 MPH, willing to trade some speed for the chance to get as far as possible. They were already nearly out of Chicagoland and would be in De Kalb in ten minutes, a trip that usually took a half hour. He turned the headlights on, ready to trade the risk of discovery for the risk of hitting something.

As he did, they passed a pair of school buses headed east. The words "First Baptist Church" were printed on the sides in reflective lettering.

"What the hell?" Emily asked. "Who would be going east right now?"

Jack shrugged. "Maybe they have kids in the city and they're trying to rescue them."

"They're a little late for that."

Emily reached over and turned on the radio, flipping it to an AM news channel. "The rioting in Atlanta seems to have slowed down," the news reader was saying, "Dawn is only a few minutes away and everyone seems to have paused, waiting to see what will happen." There was a pause. "We now have Professor Hintz from Northwestern University on the phone. Professor Hintz, there is a question that I don't think I've heard anyone else ask, and I don't know if it's possible to even answer it yet, but is this going to be an isolated event or will the sun continue to kill our children?"

"Well, Mike, we don't know," came the staticky response, obviously over a less than perfect cell phone connection, "And the frightening thing is, we probably won't know for several weeks or even months."

"Why?"

"Reports are coming out that this wave of disappearances isn't just effecting children. It's also taking the unborn."

"It's causing mass abortions?" came the confused response.

"Miscarriages would be a better description, but, yes." There was a pause. "Even that isn't quite the right way to describe it, though. There's actually a video from Moscow of a woman on the verge of giving birth who suddenly was not pregnant any more. We've had many reports of similar situations, many of which are double tragedies as the complications from the sudden disappearance of a fetus can be quite lethal."

"So, Professor, you're telling us that we will have to wait to see if women can even become pregnant again before we can find out if our sun is going to continue to be deadly to the children of the world."

"Exactly. And I'm sure you know that it can often take weeks or months for the confirmation of viable pregnancies."

"Thank you, Professor," the news reader said, "Now we're going to take you to New York City for a report on the conditions there."

Emily reached over and grasped Jack's hand, squeezing it tightly. He pushed the car to 160, trying to outrun the bad news. But even at that speed the car didn't have a prayer of outrunning the radio.

The Grandfather

2008-05-27T16:33:00.000-07:00

Ito Jiro had been trying to improve his mind, which is why he heard the news in English.

After he and Arata had done the supper dishes and cleaned up, Jiro had turned the television to CNN, as he did every night. At first he thought there had been a bombing, or something like that cult in Tokyo a few years back—he saw frantic people, a woman screaming, emergency workers in hazmat suits.

He forced himself to focus on the unfamiliar language: “...people, all desperate for flights to the US and Canada, while in Liverpool police have been forced to seal off the port after violence erupted when all Dublin and Dun Laoghaire ferries left port early to escape the encroaching terminus...” Jiro didn’t know what “terminus” meant, but it sounded like the English word for “end.” On the screen, a teenaged boy wailed, a baby bottle in his hand.

It’s like the Bomb all over again, he thought. People were disappearing, just puffing into the air.

No...not all people. That’s not what they were saying. As the sun rose onto a place, all children there vanished, leaving the adults, as far as he could tell, unscathed. Every child. All over the world. This wasn’t the Bomb. This was worse.

“What’s going on, Grandpa?” said Arata, drawn to the screen by scenes of chaos. He didn’t know English.

Jiro closed his eyes. “There has been an earthquake,” he said. “In...in England. We should pray for them.”

“Oh,” said Arata, then wandered to his little desk in the corner of the room. Arata, Jiro’s great-grandson, his last descendant and his dearest one, was five years old.

Jiro sat down heavily, his vision swimming. They vanished with the rising sun. It was 6:37; the weak February sun was already setting. And sunrise was late this time of year, especially this far north. Maybe he had time—but he was 89 years old; even if he could find a car, he could no longer see well enough to drive. Could he run? It was hard even to walk for any length of time. And he didn’t think he could lift Arata for more than a minute. It was hard even to bathe him. They lived on the east coast, but Japan was narrow. Even if he were strong and young, there was nowhere to go.

Arata was singing to himself as he drew. Jiro slowly levered himself to his feet, stood awhile to get his breath, then walked to the boy.

“Hey, Grandpa.”

“Hey. What...what are you drawing?”

The plump little boy didn’t look up from his paper. “It’s a rocket ship. See?” He held it up.

“Why, that is fine. Very fine.” Jiro’s chest was tight. He hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack. “That is very fine,” he repeated. He couldn’t think what else to say.

Somehow, he managed to put the boy to bed without screaming.

After Arata was asleep, Jiro knelt over him and brushed the boy’s smooth cheek with his knobbed, twisted old man’s hand. He stayed there for a while. Then he got himself a beer and watched the television with the sound low. He had no idea what was causing it, nobody did. But it was on all the news channels. It was real. Jiro suspected it was some new super-weapon, maybe something electromagnetic. Pretty soon, someone would be at war, if they weren’t already. Jiro hadn’t gotten drunk since the war, but he wished he had something stronger in the house than beer. He was glad that Aoi, Arata’s mother, wasn’t alive to see this happen.

Maybe there were riots already, in the big cities. But Niseko was a tiny town, and it was silent. He fancied he could even hear the sea, over the murmured horrors from the television.

Five children, twelve grandchildren, all adults—and two great-grandchildren. But Miyoko was sixteen. He hoped that would be old enough. He wondered if it was painful, to disintegrate like that.

Jiro had never seen the point of suicide. During the war, they had told him, of course, that if you were about to lose, your duty was not to surrender like some sort of selfish coward, but to die, and if possible, take as many of the enemy with you. And he had nodded with all the rest, young faces glowing with the usual patriotic zeal.

But he had never really, seriously considered that anybody might actually want to stop living. Every day he was alive was beautiful, no matter what was going on. Selfish? Maybe, but he couldn’t help it. Even when his wife had died twenty years before, even when he had lost his granddaughter, the beat of his own heart and the breath in his lungs had been too sweet.

Jiro sat in front of the television all night.

Before the sky was even pale, he got up, joints aching in the cold. He brushed his teeth. He showered. His hands were shaking, but he even shaved. And when he tied his tie, the knot was as neat as he could make it. He put on warm clothes. He wrote a letter to his children and left it on his desk. He wondered if anybody would read it; maybe the world was ending.

Then he woke Arata up. “We’re going for a walk,” he said. As the boy sleepily ate his breakfast, Jiro drank a cup of tea. He would miss tasting things.

On the way out, Jiro made sure to turn the television off and the thermostat down. The sky was beginning to pale. Jiro crept slowly along the path towards the sea, planting his stick into the snow with every step. It wouldn’t do to slip and fall now, to break something. The boy tried to keep pace with his grandfather, but then, bored, he would dart ahead, or scamper off the path to gaze at ice-laden trees, at frosted windows.

By the time they reached the sea cliffs, it was almost dawn. Carefully, the old man picked his way up the slippery rocks and the boy followed him.

“Look,” Jiro said. “Isn’t it beautiful?” They stared out to sea.

“Bu...ti...ful,” Arata said.

Jiro’s heart was pounding, and he felt clammy under his sweater and coat, too hot and too cold at the same time. But he had made it; even now, everything still worked, although not as well as it once had. He would probably live a few years longer. After Arata was dead. He tried to imagine life without him, and found that he couldn’t.

He ruffled the boy’s hair, then set his stick down, stepped behind him, and gripped Arata’s shoulders with both hands. Arata didn’t flinch: Jiro himself had been caned at school, as had his own sons, but in all his short life, nobody had ever done this child harm.

“Little fellow, do you remember the prayer I taught you?”

“Yeah.” Arata twisted his finger in his mouth.

“Can you say it for me?”

“Nam...Namu Amida Butsu.”

“And do you remember why we say it?” The sea wind was so cold against Jiro’s face; he was crying by now. Everything was blurring into light.

“If you say it, you’ll be born in the Pure Land.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Yeah, but why...”

“Close your eyes,” Jiro whispered, and pushing the boy in front of him, stepped forward off the cliff.

The End of the World, Part 2

2008-05-25T21:31:00.001-07:00

Emily turned and walked out of the room. Jack followed, mute, numb, and scared. They walked in to Nate's room. Emily put her hands on the railing of the crib. Jack wrapped his arms around his wife's waist and they stared down at their infant son; together, but completely and totally alone.

Jack had never been able to see himself as a father. He and Emily had met when he was nearly 28. By then he'd been best man at three weddings, a godfather twice over, and developed a bad habit of snickering behind the backs of his friends when they'd traded in their Mustangs for minivans and replaced their wallet condoms with baby pictures. Now here he was, a month past 31 and facing something he couldn't even begin to contemplate.

Diaper bags, baby formula and car seats had once seemed like a death sentence, the mark of lost freedom and the dreaded growing up. But he found himself looking forward to walking in the front door every night and seeing his smiling baby, hearing him laugh, smelling that odd combination of baby powder, baby oil, and tear-free shampoo that now permeated most of the house. He treasured walks around the park with the stroller and was happy to trade in Friday nights at the bar for collapsing on to the couch, wrapping his arms around Emily and tickling Nate's toes while barely paying attention to the latest Netflix DVD.

Bill was the last holdout from his group of bachelor friends turned fathers. They had mocked their friends together, but Jack had ended up feeling sorry for Bill. There was a joy in growing up and starting a family that couldn't be explained to someone who hadn't yet experienced it.

Still, that old "just the guys" machismo was why Jack had told Bill that Emily didn't like the Maserati. In truth, the car terrified him at the same time he was thrilled to see it in the driveway. He squeezed Emily just a little tighter, remembering the accident that had almost cost him everything. She mumbled something and pressed her head against his shoulder, but didn't share her thoughts with him, didn't save him from his memory.

He'd been at work when the call came from the hospital. A drunk driver had run a stoplight in an SUV, rolling over the Toyota Corolla driven by his six-month pregnant wife. He'd rushed to the hospital, arriving just in time to give the doctors permission to perform an emergency c-section on the still unconscious Emily. From there that terrible day had been a blur. He mostly remembered sitting in a spartan waiting room, staring at the floor while his parents and in-laws sat on either side, saying all the inane things that are supposed to be said to and by the terrified, helpless loved ones.

The only clear recollection he had from that entire day was the doctor. He'd limped out of the surgical theater and taken in the motley collection with weary eyes. But when he pulled his mask down he was smiling. "Your wife is okay," he'd said, "And so is your son."

In the end, the insurance settlement had paid for the new Prius out in the driveway, allowed them to pay of a substantial portion of their mortgage and given them a fine start on both a retirement and college account. But the money wasn't worth the cost. For nearly a month the only way he'd been able to touch his son was with rubber gloves pushed through holes in a plexiglass box. For two weeks he'd had sleepless nights on a reclining chair in Emily's hospital room. Then there was the rehab and the frightening, barely considered, possibility that Nate would be Emily's only child.

"I love you," Jack murmured in her ear. "We'll get through this."

She turned from the crib and wrapped her arms tightly around him. "I know," she said after a long, deep silence. "Maybe...maybe the President was wrong. Maybe it won't come here."

"We can only hope." They fell silent again, this time not quite as alone as before.

Nate suddenly woke up, hungry. Emily picked him up and helped him find a nipple. She leaned over to kiss him on top of his head. When she looked back up her eyes were filled with grief.

"I can't lose him, Jack," she said as a tear ran down her cheek. "I just can't."

He caught the tear on her chin with his finger, then traced its path back up to the corner of her eye. "I...I can't, either," he said. "We'll think of something, though. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she said hoarsely, "No matter how much you want to."

Nate finished and snuggled up against his mother's breast. She hefted the baby over her shoulder and pulled her shirt all the way back on. Then she walked out of the nursery and in to the master bedroom. Jack followed the pair, unwilling to let them out of his sight.

She laid Nate down on their bed, then picked a book up off the dresser. It was a baby blue album emblazoned with the words "Our Littlest Treasure" in gold on the cover. A tiny black hand print was beneath the words, the print of a preemie who'd miraculously survived a traumatic first day.

Emily folded herself protectively around her son on the bed and opened up the baby book. Jack slid on to the bed behind her, wrapping his right arm around his wife and propping his head up with his left. Together they shared the too few memories of their son.

The first few pictures were of mother and son in the hospital. Doctors and nurses filled in the space in those shots, their names gratefully recorded so no one would forget how much work had gone in to that one little life. He smiled as she flipped to the page with the picture of four smiling, paint splattered grandparents. They'd barely talked to each other in the months leading to the wedding and nearly come to blows at the reception, but while Emily and Nate were in the hospital and Jack barely saw his own home they'd decided to prepare the nursery together. Since then, his parents and in-laws had been inseparable friends whom no one who didn't know the history would believe had once despised each other.

Too soon, though, they came to the blank pages where the six month and one year pictures were supposed to go. Emily closed the book, turned off the light, then rolled over and placed Nate between herself and Jack. They'd laid in that exact position many nights already, amazed at the little person they had brought in to the world, dreaming of the man he would grow up to be. Now Emily looked in Jack's eyes with an unspeakable grief. He knew that his eyes mirrored hers.

After a while they fell asleep. Jack dreamt that he was standing in a big field with his son at his feet. A great, terrifying beast approached the pair, intent on devouring the helpless baby. Jack scooped his son up in his arms, then turned and ran as fast as he could. Away, always away.

With a start he found himself back in his bedroom. Emily slept quietly, one arm around their son. Moonlight streamed in through the open window. Jack got up and walked to the window, straining his eyes for the slightest hint of a terrible dawn on the eastern horizon. All he saw was his quiet, empty street. Then his eyes fell on the Maserati, glowing slightly under the white, soft light of the moon.

His eyes widened as the solution hit him. He spun and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 5:30. There was still time, just barely.

He jumped on to the bed and shook his wife's shoulder. "Em, wake up," he whispered, "I have an idea."

Her eyes fluttered. "Wha...what?" All of the sudden they snapped open. "Nate?" she asked, then squeezed the baby. She smiled. "Are we okay?"

"It's not dawn yet," Jack told her. "We've still got an hour, hour and a half."

"Then what's going on?"

"I have an idea."

Race to Dawn

2008-05-24T08:09:00.000-07:00

Cathleen Silver had never been the type to watch CNN. Even before Pastor Billings had warned - nay, outright forbidden - dutiful wives like herself from worrying themselves with issues that bore no particular relevance to serving God, husband or family (in no particular order), Cathleen had never understood why she should be interested in the particulars of that brief Russia-Israel war that had, after all, not a single casualty. Nor why anyone should care about some trifling election in some Eastern European country she'd never even heard of. And had she not pressed the wrong button on her remote control trying to switch off her television set before bed, she'd have missed their exclusive coverage of the end of the world.

"Starting from 6.15 AM, Israeli time, children have been disappearing in a wave that follows the sun as it rises across Europe and Africa."

Newsreaders, outwardly calm and dignified but inwardly either terrified for their loved ones or ecstatic at breaking what was the story of the century, spoke in the flattest General American monotone they could muster under the circumstances, interspersed with vignettes from reporters across Europe.

A reporter standing at the peak of a wave-beaten cliff (a small red bug on the screen informed Cathleen that these cliffs were somewhere in Britain - specifically a place called "Dover") gestured towards the ominous red glow on the horizon. The air above the waters was thick with the exhaust fumes of ferries, warships, freighters and yachts, some commandeered by the French Navy, some piloted by altruistic individuals who had picked up as many desperate families as they could from the Calais coastline. All the boats carried European refugees across the Channel to England, in the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the island would be safe from the plague that had swept the mainland.

"The ships will arrive to an empty town," the man said, clutching his microphone hard as the strong sea winds howled against the chalk face below, "as many of the residents of Dover have already evacuated to the West Country.

Reports are coming in from Heathrow and Gatwick of queues, some of made up of well over two-thousand people, all desperate for flights to the US and Canada, while in Liverpool police have been forced to seal off the port after violence erupted when all Dublin and Dun Laoghaire ferries left port early to escape the encroac..."

Cathleen shut-off the set and picked up her well-worn, hand-annotated Bible. Many of the notes were based directly on Billings' sermons, and were marked by a veritable forest of fluorescent, brightly coloured post-its that poked out of its pages. Green notes were about the Second Coming, red ones were about Hell, and yellow ones were about the Rapture. There were a lot of yellow ones.

Billings had explained all of this - the regeneration of Israel, the massive nuclear war, and now the Rapture. And it was all in the Bible, or so Billings had promised. She took his word for it. He'd never mentioned it coming in a wave, but then it doesn't matter if a few small details were wrong. The important thing was that true Christians would get to Heaven early, while the rest of humanity would be forced to sit through the apocalypse. So, who could Cathleen save?

Ronald, her husband; he'd never been the religious type. He was a train driver on the Chicago-Dallas railroad, and Cathleen worried that he was happier alone in his cab with a stack of those 'magazines' than he was at home with her. Besides, he was driving the night freight tonight - railway regulations forebade Ronald from carrying a cellphone, otherwise Cathleen could have called him, tried to score a last-minute conversion.

What about her daughter Zoe? She was away at college but then, she was probably beyond saving anyway - joining either the Feminist Society or Friends of LGBT was risky from an "I want to be Raptured" perspective, Pastor Billings had explained. Joining both was spiritual suicide. Her son Michael on the other hand... well, he was young and innocent. He got the free pass. And Cathleen? Well, she'd never sinned... at least, she couldn't remember doing any of those things the Reverend had called sinful. And she knew the Sinners' Prayer off by heart, that had to count for something.

Michael was in bed at the moment. In a few short hours, they'd both be with God. But then, how long's a few hours? Cathleen glanced at the clock, eager to see the morning for the first time since her eighth Christmas. What! Not only just gone midnight? Sunrise isn't until eight o'clock 'round this time of year!

"There must be some way to speed this process along," she thought.

Then it hit her. If she drove towards the East Coast, she could meet the Rapture head on! New York was about 12 hours drive from Mount Prospect, so if the Sun is going to rise in about 7 hours time - Cathleen flicked open the road atlas - they'll be saved somewhere on Interstate 80 outside Pittsburgh. Not the most glamorous place to be saved, but it'll do.

Cathleen shook Michael from his sleep, packed the leftovers from the Sunday meal into a picnic basket, and bundled both boy and basket into the backseat of their station wagon.

"Where are we going, mom?" asked Michael, still in his teddy-bear pajamas.

"To God" was her simple reply. She'd never explained the Rapture to him, but she saw no point in confusing him with it now. She could tell him after the fact.

"But we went to church yesterday" Michael muttered, drifting in and out of sleep.

The tank was full - Ronald was always so particular about preparing his trips in advance that he even prepared for journeys he hadn't planned - and Cathleen floored the gas pedal. The car screeched through the leafy suburban streets towards the on-ramp. The eastbound lanes of the freeway were totally clear while the westbound stood bumper to bumper all the way from New York - it was only 2 AM, but a few insomniacs lulling themselves to sleep on rolling news had learnt of the horrifying disappearances sweeping across the continent. They'd telephoned friends, friends telephoned other friends, until most of the country was either driving straight for California, or lining up at airports where a handful of lucky souls could snatch a few extra hours together on the Pan-Con flight to Tokyo.

After hundreds of miles of featureless grey concrete, Cathleen spotted the first light on the horizon. Unfortunately, it was just the urban glow from Cleveland, streetlights still buzzing unaware that half the city had left, and the other half would shortly get a very rude awakening indeed. Nevertheless, Cleveland meant she'd been driving for the best part of six hours. Slightly less actually - the roads were clearer than usual, and since the police were more concerned with getting people away from the steadily approaching sunlight, Cathleen was exceeding the speed limit by a good 20 mph. She was tired - she'd been up early to get everything ready for church, dressing Michael in his Sunday best, washing Ronald's clothes for his shift – but it wasn't far now. If she could just her eyes open and on the road for a couple more hours, she could make it.

As the station wagon passed the Punxsutawny junction, the first shafts of real sunlight danced across the night sky. The gas tank was running low, but there were only a few minutes of night left anyway. There's no harm in running out of fuel in the middle of nowhere if you're going to be Raptured away to safety.

"We're almost saved Michael!" Cathleen yelled, brimming with excitement.

"From who?" Michael groaned.

The first sliver of the Sun edged over the horizon.

"Exciting isn't it!" asked Cathleen.

No response. Michael must have drifted off again.

Cathleen jammed the pedal to the floor one more time, and charged towards the morning, drawn to the light like a moth to a table lamp. She kept going until a splutter from the engine told her that the petrol was almost gone. By now, the entire sun had risen over the horizon. "No point going any further", she thought, "let's stop here". She watched as the deep black of the night was slowly chased away by the light blue daylight.

Any second now... any second now.

Cathleen realised suddenly that she wasn't especially presentable to God - she'd been driving all night, with no sleep, no shower, still in her mucky apron. God probably doesn't care about appearances, but nevertheless, I might as well brush my hair, make it look like I've made an effort, she muttered to herself. Michael too - his hair is so scruffy first thing in the morning. God shouldn't have to see him like that!

She took the brush from the glove compartment and turned to the backseat of the car. A pile of teddy-bear pyjamas lay across the seat, flapping loosely in the breeze that drifted through the open window, glowing in the dappled morning sun.

By SchrodingersDuck