The Countering

by Patrick Higgins

  “It’s okay. The meeting’s still on. A friend of the two men in question asked me to tell you to drive to the Hilton Hotel a mile or so up the road on the right. Once you arrive, go to the front desk and look for a young Indian woman. Her name’s Purnima. Ask for William Fuller. She’ll give you further instructions.”

  “But...”

  “Oh, bring a change of clothing for one night. You’ll need it.”

  “But...”

  “Nice meeting you, Mister Calloway. Juice is on me. Keep fighting the Good Fight. Pray for me as I pray for you. God is with us.”

  Before he could reply, the waiter turned and walked away, leaving Calloway dumbfounded. He placed a couple of dollars on the table for a tip and left the restaurant.

  Charles easily found the Hilton Hotel. He grabbed his suitcase and went inside. Seeing a young Indian girl at the front desk he approached her.

  Her name tag read, Purnima Rushi – New Delhi, India.

  After typing something onto the keyboard in front of her, their eyes met. “I’m here to meet with a Mister William Fuller.”

  “Good afternoon, Mister Calloway,” Purnima Rushi said, matter of factly. “Kindly take the elevator to the seventh floor. I’ll call Mister Fuller to inform him of your arrival.”

  “Room number?”

  “No room number.” What she didn’t say was the two rooms occupied by the men who set up this meeting were on the ninth floor, not the seventh.

  Charles winced. “Come again?”

  Purnima Rushi did a quick scan of the hotel lobby. Satisfied that no one was listening, including her co-worker at the other end of the registration desk, she said, “Mister Fuller will meet you by the bank of elevators on the seventh floor.”

  Breaking into the warmest of smiles, the young woman whispered, “Keep fighting the Good Fight, Mister Calloway. Pray for me as I pray for you. God is with us.”

  Charles gave her a sideways look, realizing the waiter at Denny’s said the very same thing to him. “Uh, yeah, you too.”

  At that, the young woman went back to what she was doing.

  Calloway left for the bank of elevators. When he reached the seventh floor the doors parted, giving him a view of the thickly carpeted corridor and bronze-trimmed sconces splashing soft light on the beige walls.

  His eyes were quickly diverted when a burly, beefy, dark-skinned man with shaved head rose from a chair near the elevator, “I’m William Fuller. Follow me.”

  Calloway obeyed, and followed the man wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans that were ripped at the knees down the emergency stairs to the fourth floor. From there they rode the elevator down to the parking garage beneath the lobby floor. Fuller hit a button on his electronic key and both men heard the faint sound of his car responding a short distance away.

  Reaching the windowless passenger van, Fuller put his hand on the back-door handle then paused. “By the way, my name’s not William Fuller. It’s Braxton Rice. Sorry for lying to you, man. Can’t be too careful now.”

  Before Calloway could respond, Rice opened the door. Clayton Holmes and Travis Hartings were both seated in the back seat. Calloway’s eyes widened.

  “Good afternoon, Charles,” Clayton Holmes said. “Sorry for the wild goose chase. We’re practicing for when this becomes everyday life for us in the not-too-distant future.

  “It’s important that we not be seen in public with you or anyone else we’re considering for our organization. All it would take is for one restaurant or hotel lobby camera to connect the three of us and it could prove costly at some point.”

  “I understand.” Calloway couldn’t help but feel honored in the presence of these two men.

  “We figured you would, Charles,” Hartings said, with an assuring smile. “After all, you just passed a very big test.”

  “What test?”

  “Not only did you not tell Brian Mulrooney anything, you refrained from disclosing any information to the waiter at Denny’s who served you orange juice, and the young woman at the hotel who pointed you to us. Well done. Clayton and I are both grateful.”

  Calloway winced. “How do you know Brian Mulrooney?”

  “We don’t know him, per se, only from conversations with you.”

  “Yes, we tapped your phone,” Clayton Holmes said, unapologetically. “Been listening to your conversations for quite some time. It’s because of us that Brian received a missed call from you. I can assure you it wasn’t a pocket dial on your end.”

  Charles Calloway’s brow furrowed as he considered what Holmes had just told him. He wasn’t overly surprised that the waiter and young lady at the front desk of the Hilton Hotel were somehow involved. He figured that much. But Brian too?

  Funnily enough, Charles wasn’t offended. He shrugged it off.

  Travis Hartings said, “Hop on in. There’s much we want to share with you. Just not here. We should be at the real destination in a few hours.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Tennessee.”

  “Where in Tennessee?”

  Clayton Holmes answered for his partner, “Just Tennessee for now. Don’t worry, your car will be safe. And you’ll be back in plenty of time to preach at your father’s church on Sunday. We wouldn’t let you miss that for anything.”

  Calloway climbed into the front passenger seat without asking another question.

  The vehicle drove off.

  Three hours later, they reached their destination.

  Calloway’s mouth was agape. The cabin I saw in my dream! Thank you, Lord!

  6

  AS SOON AS THE vehicle came to a stop, Braxton Rice turned to Charles Calloway, “Wait here.”

  Clayton Holmes and Travis Hartings already knew the drill.

  Rice got out and did a quick sweep for listening devices and all other electronic counter measures, using a device in his right hand that detected any and all electronic counter-espionage devices. He wasn’t expecting to find anything this early in the game, but at the very least, doing constant sweeps allowed him to hone his skills all the more.

  Calloway craned his neck back, “What if I told you, gentlemen, that I saw this cabin in my dreams the past three nights?”

  Holmes and Hartings looked at each other and smiled. The final confirmation they’d been waiting for.

  “Can’t tell you how happy we are to hear that, Charles,” Travis Hartings said. “Now we know we can trust you with our plans. We’ve been praying for weeks on end that God would give us a surefire sign so we would know those chosen at the outset would come from Him. We knew God wouldn’t put a sign on anyone’s foreheads or anything like that.”

  Clayton Holmes said, “Would be too obvious. Anyway, for three consecutive nights, Travis and I had the very same dream. In it, we saw many unrecognizable faces. We both heard a voice say, ‘Those who contact you regarding dreams they’ve had are trustworthy.’ Apparently, you’re one of them.”

  “How cool is that!” Charles said. “God is good!”

  “And faithful,” Hartings said. “Truth is, we never share our dream with anyone until they first tell us about theirs. Thanks for putting our minds at ease.”

  “Believe me when I say, it’s my pleasure!”

  Satisfied that the coast was clear, Braxton Rice gave the “thumbs up” signal and the four men hurried inside the cabin.

  Their nostrils were treated to a wonderful aroma: Miss Evelyn’s homemade honey barbecue chicken.

  At 72 years of age, Clayton Holmes’ aunt was old school in every sense of the word. What would take no more than an hour for most to prepare took Miss Evelyn three hours. She was proud to not be part of the microwave generation.

  After just one bite, Charles Callow
ay knew why Miss Evelyn’s honey barbecue chicken was one of Clayton’s favorites. Having not eaten all day, Charles practically inhaled his food. It was so delicious he had two helpings of the chicken and all the fixins.

  After dinner, as Miss Evelyn filled the dishwasher and put the leftover food in the refrigerator, the four men adjourned to the living room. Braxton Rice started a fire. Once it was up to height, he took a seat alongside his three associates.

  Clayton Holmes began, “As impressed as we are with your past success in the business world and your impressive people skills...”

  “Yes, Charles, we’ve watched some of your online training videos...” Travis Hartings said, jumping in. “You’re quite talented...”

  “Thanks,” Calloway replied.

  “Aside from the dream you had, which gave us the green light to share our plans with you,” Holmes said, “the other reason you’ve been chosen at the outset supersedes your obvious talents.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “Painful as it was to lose everyone dear to you, it actually helps you now.”

  Calloway felt a lump rise in his throat, “How’s that?”

  Travis Hartings sat up in his seat. “Let’s face it, there are no compromising strings attached to your involvement with us. One of our chief concerns when choosing those with strong ties to unbelieving family members and friends is that they could possibly compromise us at some point.”

  “This would include your friend, Brian Mulrooney,” Clayton Holmes said. “As far as we can tell, he only knew one true Christian prior to the Rapture, and didn’t even know it until after his friend Justin disappeared. The fact that his family’s still intact and aren’t believers is a red flag to us.”

  “I see.”

  Hartings said, “We’re mindful of your involvement with those two churches, Charles. Though they all profess faith in Jesus, only those who have dreams and have been properly vetted can know about us for now. And even then, we can only choose so many. At least at the outset.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me, gentlemen,” Calloway said.

  “Very good. Because Jesus warned that in the end times, a man will be pitted against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. In short, many a man’s enemies will be members of his own household.”

  Having become quite familiar with that Bible verse, Calloway nodded agreement.

  Clayton Holmes chimed in again, “This is spiritual warfare at the highest level, Charles. One outsider, one spy, one enemy of God is all it’ll take to destroy everything we’re out to accomplish. This includes unsaved friends and family members. To even associate with unbelievers could prove costly at some point, deadly even. I mean, how well do we really know each other?”

  “You got that right,” Calloway said.

  “Bottom line,” Holmes said, “anyone getting involved with us must be willing to cut all ties with unbelieving friends and family. Now more than ever, it’s becoming apparent that we need to band together as one and get better organized if we have any chance of survival. If we don’t do more, and quickly, the enemy will annihilate us before we can even put up a fight.

  “While there’s unity and solidarity among believers in small circles, on a global scale there’s virtually none to speak of. Think about it, what took the Church two thousand years to build ended at the Rapture. Don’t get me wrong: the Cornerstone, the Foundation—Christ Jesus—is still very much in place. With that Foundation still intact, all things are possible, even if the Scriptures paint a very bleak future for us. At least short-term.”

  Travis Hartings said, “In the five months www.lsarglobal.org has been in cyberspace, we’ve had more than twenty million visitors to the site. Thousands are placing their faith in Christ each week.”

  “Impressive numbers, to be sure.”

  “Impressive indeed, Charles, but if we don’t put plans in motion now and find a way to combat what’s headed our way, we’ll be destroyed without ever putting up a fight.”

  Holmes sat up in his seat. “Let me give it to you straight, Charles. Despite how popular our website has become, it doesn’t change the fact that we Christians will soon be driven from our churches and homes and greatly persecuted.

  “What we see happening to Christians on TV and online will only get worse. Those of us who escape capture will become international fugitives, sought after by people of all nations, tongues and tribes. Bounties will be placed on our heads to be brought in, dead or alive.

  “Once caught, some will be badly injured. Others will be maimed, even raped. Many of us will be murdered, but our killers will never stand trial for their heinous crimes. In fact, according to John sixteen-two, the hour is coming when those who kill us will think they’re offering a service to God.

  “If our lives are spared, we’ll be imprisoned and treated worse than dogs. The only time we’ll leave our cells will be to work rebuilding the many destroyed cities, towns and villages of the Global Community—without pay—much like Hitler did to the Jews, when he forced many of his captives to build the very concentration camps that were meant for their own extinction. The same will soon hold true for God’s Tribulation saints. Yes, us! Only worse. Much, much, worse.”

  Holmes paused to take a sip of water. “Many of us will live like vagrants, squatting in bombed-out, dilapidated buildings, in the backs of freight trains and eighteen-wheeler trucks, in tents and forts out in the wilderness, even in caves.

  “We’ll always be on the run. Once the Mark of the Beast becomes mandatory, there will be no means of buying food, water, medicine, clothing or shelter. Most will resort to picking through garbage cans in order to find something to eat.”

  All three men saw Calloway gulp hard.

  “This is as real as it gets. Charles,” Hartings said. “Having a popular website does nothing to change all of this. Unless, of course, we use it to our advantage.”

  “How’s that?”

  Clayton looked at his watch. “Sorry to end the conversation so abruptly, but we need to adjourn to the basement fallout shelter for a rather pressing conference call. We still have much to tell you. It’ll have to wait until morning. Please make yourself comfortable. Miss Evelyn will show you to your room whenever you’re ready.”

  All four men rose from their seats. “I understand, gentlemen. And I appreciate your inviting me here in the first place.”

  “It’s our pleasure, Charles.”

  At that, Clayton Holmes, Travis Hartings and Braxton Rice retreated to the basement.

  Charles grabbed his suitcase and followed Miss Evelyn upstairs to his room.

  “I changed the bed sheets today. Bathroom’s down the hallway. There’s a clean towel and wash cloth on the sink for you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Evelyn.”

  “You’re welcome, Charles. Keep fighting the Good Fight. Pray for me as I pray for you. God is with us,” the elderly woman said, quickly leaving him.

  If the saying was true that things happened in threes, hearing that heartwarming statement for the third time was the charm. Miss Evelyn’s words washed over Charles, comforting him greatly.

  Calloway hit the shower not knowing who the three men were in conference with two floors down from him. All he could do was wonder. But it didn’t matter. Just being under the same roof as Clayton Holmes, Travis Hartings and Braxton Rice made him feel safe. Extremely safe.

  For that, Calloway was grateful. A smile crossed his face. It quickly evaporated. The man who always craved action and adventure in the worst way was suddenly thrust into an adventure of biblical proportions.

  This wasn’t what he had in mind prior to last November. Nor was there an opt-out clause he could sign if he ever grew weary.
Like everyone else on the planet, Charles Calloway was stuck in the middle of it all, with physical death being the only way out.

  Then came the judgment for most…

  Before calling it a night, Calloway dropped to his knees and prayed for his three brothers in Christ down in the basement fallout shelter. Whatever they were doing, he knew it would have a direct impact on his life at some point, for better or worse.

  He then prayed for Miss Evelyn, the waiter at Denny’s and for Purnima Rushi at the Hilton Hotel, hoping they were fulfilling their obligation and doing the same for him.

  Finally, he prayed for the members at both churches where he was interim pastor, and for Brian Mulrooney and Tamika Moseley.

  Charles climbed into bed and sent Tamika a text message like he did each night. Just prayed for you. Here if you need me. Good night. May God bless and keep you.

  7

  TAMIKA MOSELEY SQUINTED IN the darkness so she could read Charles Calloway’s text message. Her eyes burned from over exhaustion, like dry autumn leaves.

  Tamika scratched her head: Bless and keep me? Keep me from what, killing myself? If Charles Calloway’s goal was to make her feel warm and fuzzy inside, he failed miserably. She felt no need to send a reply.

  This wasn’t the first night Tamika Moseley lay in bed plotting the best way to end her life. She felt certain it wouldn’t be the last.

  With the three people most responsible for adding contentment to her life now gone—her two sons, Jamal and Dante, and her mother, Ruth Ferguson—cruelly taken from her in the blink of an eye, the 27-year-old New York City taxi driver was teetering on the brink of the abyss. Again.

  The last time Tamika saw her two boys was shortly before all hell broke loose. She left for work that November Saturday morning excited about her upcoming four-day Thanksgiving vacation, not knowing she’d never see Jamal and Dante again.

  The pain she felt from missing them so much made her childbirth pains feel like mosquito bites. To make matters worse, it was February—the birth month of her two sons. There would be no birthday parties for Jamal and Dante this year. Not even a vigil in their honor. It would be too painful to even try.