by Glenn Kleier
Two shiny eyes glared back.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, October 14, 6:00 am
Endicott, Percy & Moore Communications
“Sit,” Shonda Gonzalez said, eyes never leaving her computer screen.
Kassandra sank into the cool black leather of a chair, facing her department head across an aircraft-carrier-size glass desk. The office was equally spacious, well-appointed. Just what Kassandra envisioned for herself here someday.
Endicott, Percy & Moore was the crème de la crème of PR firms. Kassandra had fixed her sights on it long ago, pursuing a dual poli-sci/public-relations degree at Vassar, graduating with honors last spring. And now she was but two competitors away from realizing her dream. The deadline for proposals to counter the GOP swing-state assault was yesterday morning, and the only other female intern had missed it, bowing out. Kassandra was in high spirits, exhaustion aside, confident her well-honed plan would propel her into a face-off finale next week.
At length, Shonda sat back, folded her arms across her chest, and stared out the window. She asked, “How long did you work on this?”
Kassandra smiled. “Nonstop till I turned it in. Thank God for energy drinks.”
“Did you develop any other concepts?”
“No. I believe in this.”
The woman turned to her. “I told you to run it by Mitch before resubmitting.”
“Right. Mitch signed off on it.”
“You spoke with him?”
“Uh, no. I left messages and emails, but got no reply. Someone on the team ran it past him.”
Fellow intern, Bobby Driscoll, had come through for her, bless his frat-jock heart. He’d presented her plan by phone to Mitch, EP&M’s legal advisor, who’d green-lighted it. That hurdle cleared, Kassandra was confident of getting Shonda’s approval, and it would be on to the next round in the competition. At which point, she was also confident she’d find a means to dispatch Bobby, the likely front-runner.
Shonda replied, “Well, whoever pitched your plan wasn’t clear. The DNC is already pursuing the same strategy. Mitch knows it, he wouldn’t have you duplicate efforts. If you’d taken time to explain it to him yourself.”
Kassandra felt her jaw drop. “But, but Mitch wasn’t available—”
“I don’t care if you had to track him down at home and camp on his doorstep. If you’re going to succeed at EP&M, you’ve got to be clever and resourceful.”
Like Bobby Driscoll.
Face burning, Kassandra started to defend herself, but trailed off. She dared not mention Bobby, having no way to corroborate his subterfuge, expecting to be terminated on the spot.
Nevertheless, Shonda bent back to her keyboard, and Kassandra slunk away crushed and panicked, left with precious little time to cobble together a new plan.
Chapter 13
Tuesday, October 14, 6:30 am, Queens
Awakening from a fitful sleep, Scotty swatted his alarm clock till it shut up. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of Lysol, urine and burnt fur still strong in the air. It had taken him hours last night to clean up the mess, but thankfully neither the piss nor fur were Homer’s. The cat had been safe behind the bedroom door, describing what occurred on the other side as a tirade of snarling, growling and destruction that began at 10:00 and continued until 2:00.
Scotty was at wit’s end. Demon or no, he had to work today, forced to leave Homer alone again. Rising, he called to him under the bed, got a growl in response, stuffed himself into clothes, dragged to the living room, and sat on the exposed frame of his tattered couch, staring at Mom’s plant. It looked worse in the light of day, upright and back in its corner. It might recover if Scotty could shield it from further assaults, but he’d nowhere else to put it, it needed sun.
He surveyed the rest of his belongings. Nasty scars on the old tube TV and VHS player (guilt gifts from Pop last spring after he’d kicked Scotty out). Deep gouges on the table/desk as if it had hosted a rodeo. Luckily Scotty’s computer tower was under the table. Its files were intact, including the novel he’d been hacking at since high school, unable to come up with an ending. R U God was also protected, being an online game.
But many other items were ruined, and Scotty had no hope of replacing them soon. No insurance. Not that he’d grounds for a claim. He’d no evidence of forced entry, no way to prove he, himself, wasn’t responsible. And he wasn’t about to touch Ivy’s college fund, paltry as it was.
His greatest worry at the moment, however, was Homer. Whatever nightmare had unleashed its fury here yesterday, surely it wasn’t finished. Scotty had no choice now, he had to move out. But all he could do before leaving for work was stock food, water and litter box in the bedroom once more, promising Homer he’d be safe.
Homer wasn’t buying it, still holed up under the bed.
Another tedious day crunching numbers. Scotty couldn’t concentrate. He so wanted to confide in Reggie and Zing, but something told him it was a bad career move for Schlompsky’s bookkeeper to come off insane. He masked his agitation as the seconds dripped slowly off the clock, at last making his way home…
To find Mom’s plant upended again. More broken branches, spilled soil. Nothing else looked disturbed, the bedroom door secure, Homer mewling inside. And righting the plant, Scotty strained his back and ankle once more.
Chapter 14
Wednesday, October 15, 6:30 am, City of God
Reverend Penbrook Thornton sat at his desk in his office, two-finger typing Sunday’s homily in concert with the tick-tock of the grandfather clock.
Thornton took special care with his sermons, an important means to expand his ministry. His words reached not only his congregants, but many thousands more nationwide via CFN, the Christian Faith Network he’d founded years ago. Today’s programming was about to begin, and as he reached for the TV remote beside him, he heard a pop. A little gold cross cartwheeled across his desk and spun to a stop in front of him. His lapel pin, its clasp broken.
He groaned. The pin was a priceless heirloom. He’d no idea where it came from originally, but it had seen Gramps safely through World War II, after which Gramps gave it to Ma when she married Pa, she, in turn, pinning it on Pa when he took his guard job at Whiteville Correctional. Upon Pa’s retirement, both pin and guard job passed to Thornton, for whom the little cross continued its good blessings. Not only did it save his life one stormy night, it launched his ministry.
Ms. Willoughby’s cheery voice on the intercom interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, a reporter’s on the line for you. Kyle Heath. He wants to come down to do a story.”
Thornton didn’t recognize the name, rolling his fingers on the desk. The media hadn’t always been kind to him. Mainstream media, anyway. For many Liberals, the City was their greatest fear made flesh, a Fundamentalist theocracy operating openly and prosperously in America.
Years back, the ACLU/separation-of-church-and-state crowd had brought suit to negate the City of God’s charter. The case was tied up in the courts, now at the Supreme Court, exactly where Thornton wanted it. Six current justices owed their seats to Thornton and his CCC. Even so, the Court appeared divided, the case resting on thin Constitutional ice, and with a decision nearing, Thornton’s City could ill afford any negative publicity.
Thornton asked, “What media?”
“Hawk News.”
Ah, that was a different matter. The Hawk news juggernaut held Christianity in proper regard. Thornton was a frequent guest on its shows, one of their go-to authorities on religious matters.
“…We don’t have Mr. Heath on file, but he sent me his bio, and I forwarded it to you.”
Checking his computer screen, Thornton saw the photo of a handsome, well-groomed young black man with dark hair and gray eyes. Heath’s vita described him as a junior correspondent at Hawk with a Doctor of Divinity degree from Harvard. A bit Leftist for Thornton’s tastes.
“Bless you, Ms. Willoughby. Please put him through.”
Picking up, he boomed, “P
enbrook Thornton here, nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Heath.”
“An honor, sir. Thanks for taking my call, I know you’re busy.”
Thornton chuckled. “God’s tasks are many, but I’ve always time for my friends at Hawk. How may I help?”
“I’ll be brief, Reverend. We’re working on a story about spiritual counseling to air end-of-month. We think our audience would be interested in the methods you use at your Christian Family Research Institute, and we’d like to drop by for a visit.”
The phone felt moist in Thornton’s hand. “What’s the thrust of your story?”
“We want to give viewers a Christian perspective on the treatment of mental illness; compare the benefits of spiritual healing to pharma-based psychiatry. We feel counseling centers like yours get short shrift, and we’d like to interview you and Dr. Neuhoffer.”
Dr. Phillip Neuhoffer, director of the Institute. Indeed, the Institute’s methods were poorly understood outside of Evangelical circles. The American Psychiatric Association, comprised of secularists, as it was, had little knowledge or regard for faith-based therapy. Numerous times the APA had denied accreditation to Thornton’s Institute, forcing it to operate unlicensed as a private center. That, coupled with rumors of youth problems in the City, led reporters to come sniffing on occasion—only to be stonewalled by Thornton and his buttoned-up congregation.
Thornton had good reason to fear the media. For years now, a segment of City youths had engaged in self-destructive behaviors. Marring their bodies with piercings and tattoos. Cutting, burning themselves, indulging in premarital sex. And most devastating, some had taken their own lives, and in far higher numbers than the national average for municipalities this size. An enormous embarrassment for a community of professed Christian values.
Fortunately, the City’s crime rate didn’t include incidents of suicide. Suicide itself wasn’t a crime. Not even a civil offense. Still, it was a grave sin. A deeply disturbing failure of faith that grieved Thornton to the core. Evil had taken root here. The Devil had come preying on weak souls, working to undermine Thornton’s great achievement. And despite all the praying and preaching Thornton had devoted to the battle, the casualties mounted. He’d needed an answer, urgently, and from the depths of his desperation sprang the Christian Family Research Institute.
For more than a decade, the Institute had served as both a sanctum for the spiritually disturbed, and a means to shield the public from unpleasant issues. The Institute’s patients were afforded doctor/patient confidentiality during their treatment, their names and afflictions safe from police records and court blotters—and beyond the reach of prying media.
Hawk News was no threat. Surely Thornton could count on the network to give the Institute the objective coverage it deserved.
He responded, “You’ve caught us at a hectic time, Mr. Heath, but let me do this. I’ve a meeting with Director Neuhoffer on Friday. I’ll discuss this and see what I can do, and get back with you.”
Heath thanked him, and Thornton hung up. As he did, a gleam from outside the window caught his eye. A sunbeam radiated from high atop the Tabernacle in the distance, flaring off the upraised, gilded hand of John the Evangelist, shining into Thornton’s office to set his fallen lapel pin aglow. Thornton took the cross in trembling fingertips and studied it in the light.
An omen.
But how to interpret it?
Chapter 15
Wednesday, October 15, 5:59 pm, Queens
Scotty entered his apartment relieved to find things as he’d left them. Plant upright, bedroom door closed. As he hung up his staff and jacket, however, he sensed something.
The cat called out from the bedroom, The noises again!
Homer didn’t sound too upset, perhaps growing used to the sounds. And when Scotty released him, he bounded for the kitchen. But as Scotty turned to follow, he noticed something odd on his computer screen. Gone were the swimming fish, replaced by a chat window from R U God. Scotty never used the chat line, so how did the window open on its own?
He hobbled over to see the window was blank save for an icon in the center. No icon he’d come across before, yet familiar. The face of God from the Sistine Chapel. Bearded, stern, wise. Under the icon appeared a red message alert, time-stamped 10:00 AM. He opened it to read: you have an epistle.
But how? Scotty hadn’t enabled any alerts, email or otherwise. Fearing a virus, he went to the kitchen, fetched Homer his dinner, himself a cup of soup, and returned to his computer to ponder. If a virus, it wouldn’t be his first. He checked his firewall. Up and running, no alarms. Curiosity finally getting the better of him, he clicked on the epistle and up popped a message:
beware the rising moon—[email protected]
What the hell? A riddle? Scotty had no clue what it meant or where it came from. He didn’t recognize the email address, and he knew no “Herald.” But whoever this was, he was no longer online, or the browser status bar would have featured a green “live” dot.
Suspecting spam from some horoscope site, Scotty deleted the message, closed the window, and ran a virus scan. Clean. As he finished, Homer leaped onto his lap.
Enough of the crap. Let’s play God.
Exactly what Scotty needed, a distraction. He hadn’t checked on Scottworld since Saturday, a long time to leave his planet adrift.
Moments later, he and Homer were swooping into Times Square. All appeared normal, city thrumming along. But when he stopped by the news ticker for updates, he was annoyed to discover those pesky Rhomboids at it again. Homer growled.
The Rhomboid leaders were planning another march tonight, it said, and Scotty noted with alarm, the time was now well past midnight in Paris. He zoomed across Times Square to an electronics store where TVs in the window aired the march live, confirming his fears. Thousands of Rhomboids were moving down the banks of the Seine through the city, torches lighting the streets. Ahead lay L’Office Francais de L’Immigration et de L’Integration, defended by an armed force of federal Gendarmerie.
All the worse, a second mob was approaching opposite. Middle-Easterners, Africans, and other disenfranchised immigrants. Two onslaughts converging on an anxious militia in the middle. The news reported similar tensions throughout the rest of the Continent. How tonight went in Paris, likely so went PanEurope. If only Scotty had the power to wave his hand and change the hearts of his virtual subjects. But that’s what made the game so challenging.
He rocketed back into the heavens toward the City of Light, descending moments later in darkness above the Seine, holding his breath. L’Office stood out aglow in spotlights, a large, imposing stone structure encircled by soldiers and armored vehicles. Both mobs had zeroed on it, and catching sight of each other, they erupted in war whoops and rushed ahead. The Gendarmeries stood their ground, leveling guns at the approaching threats, seconds till impact.
Homer’s claws dug into Scotty’s legs. Whatever the hell you’re gonna do, do it fast!
Scotty whispered, “High school physics, don’t fail me now…”
He flew over the river to the deserted Left Bank, rotating toward the conflict, working the climate controls on his screen. Instantly a breeze arose and swept across the water, condensing into cloud, reaching the far shore in a towering fog bank, like Egypt’s final plague in The Ten Commandments, the Angel of Death. The white wave rolled over the Seine’s retaining wall onto the riverfront, panicking the rioters as it engulfed them. They turned and fled, lost in the haze, zombies groping with arms outstretched, crashing into parked cars, lampposts, one another.
Scotty mopped his brow with a sleeve. He was lucky this time, he dare not lay off so long.
Homer pawed him. Apparently, all frogs can’t swim…
Marchers had tumbled blindly over the wall into the river. Scotty rushed to unmoor dinghies from a dock, blowing them within reach until all in peril were finally safe.
“Frogs?” he asked Homer, scratching the cat’s ears. “How do you like being called a pus
sy?”
Homer shrugged and smiled up at him. Touché.
Chapter 16
Thursday, October 16, 6:15 pm, Queens
Scotty returned home from work, grateful to find things undisturbed again. He’d given Homer run of the apartment.
The cat greeted him at the door. I’m starving.
“No problems today, then?”
The noises were back, 10:00 and 2:00. Nothing more.
Scotty was thankful for that much. He could contend with the noises, and apparently Homer was adjusting.
But as he headed for the kitchen, he glanced at his computer and froze. The chat window was on screen again, the icon of God’s face from the Sistine Chapel. Moving closer, Scotty saw that same, flashing red alert, time-stamped 10:01 AM.
It read: you have an epistle. He frowned, and clicked.
take not the bus tomorrow—[email protected]
What now, a promotional ploy for Uber? “Herald” was again offline. Fearing a spam trap, Scotty trashed the email, and this time he blocked its sender, restoring his screen to fish.
He fed Homer, microwaved ramen noodles for himself, and retired to the couch and TV. Why he bothered with the local news he didn’t know, depressing. But as the guru advised,
Step #26: An informed man is a wise man.
The usual fare. Crime rising, jobs falling, protesters picketing the mayor’s office over slashed education funds. And the day’s top story, a deadly gas explosion at a restaurant in Chinatown.
Homer jumped into his lap, and Scotty picked up the remote. But before he could change the channel, the picture cut to a close-up of the restaurant’s scorched sign: The Rising Moon.
Scotty dropped the remote.
That strange email he’d gotten from “Herald” yesterday, beware the rising moon.
Homer stared at him, and Scotty shook his head.
“Coincidence. Has to be.”