Apocalypse

by Paul Lalonde

  “You know these young men by name?” asked the astonished minister.

  “Of course,” she replied. “They’re my neighbors. I’ve visited two of them in jail, but all of them have been in trouble with the law. They’re all looking for love, structure, a family. They have a real spiritual hunger, Pastor. If we bring them the Word, they will turn their passions to the Lord. Their hearts are reaching out to Jesus; they just don’t know it yet. That’s what I tell them whenever I see them.”

  “And they listen?” queried the pastor.

  “Of course not,” she said with a smile. “They think I’m a crazy old lady. I know that in God’s time their hearts will be reached by the Holy Spirit. Until then I just try to love them.”

  It was well after dark that evening when Edna returned to her apartment and turned on WNN. She sat in her favorite chair, to read from the Bible while keeping one ear open for her granddaughter on television. The image of Franco Macalousso appeared, surrounded by regional faction leaders.

  Edna’s Bible was open to II Thessalonians. Ignoring the reporter shouting questions to Macalousso, she read silently from the second chapter, “Now we beseech you, brethren, by the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by our gathering together unto him, that ye be not soon shaken in mind, or be troubled, neither by spirit, nor by word, nor by letter as from us, as that the day of Christ is at hand.” It was a familiar passage, one her Bible study had discussed a few weeks ago, and she wondered why it seemed so important to her now.

  “Let no man deceive you by any means: for that day shall not come, except there come a falling away first, and that man of sin be revealed, the son of perdition . . .”

  She glanced at the screen to see a close-up of Macalousso discussing the challenge of the new world order in this dire crisis. He spoke of negotiations, but the words faded away as she stared at him. There was something troubling about the man, a quality both greater and less than the image he presented. She glanced back at the Scriptures.

  “And now ye know what withholdeth that he might be revealed in his time. For the mystery of iniquity doth already work: only he who now letteth will let, until he be taken out of the way. And then shall that Wicked be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming.”

  Edna set down the Bible. Something was happening, something she had instinctively known would occur in her lifetime, yet nothing she could ever have prepared for. She felt suddenly compelled to write a note to her granddaughter and hurriedly took up pen and paper. There seemed so little time, and so much to say.

  The terrified soldier ran up to Bronson Pearl, still broadcasting live from Megiddo. His face was pale, his stomach churning, and terror gripped his heart. As a Jew he understood that God’s covenants with Abraham, Noah, Moses, and the other patriarchs promised that his people would survive. But such knowledge was of scant comfort now. He feared a lingering death, feared having to face God, knowing how many of his failings had been written in the Book of Life.

  The soldier passed a printout to Bronson who, scanning it quickly, looked into the camera and waited for the signal that he was going live. “I have just been handed a report,” he said, “that the U.S. aircraft carrier Nebraska has been struck by a tactical nuclear torpedo fired from a Chinese submarine. Ships in the area have launched search-and-rescue efforts, and helicopters have arrived, but the nine-thousand-ton ship was completely destroyed. The U.S. government is planning an immediate and retaliatory strike against key targets on mainland China, the Pentagon said in an official statement. We have unconfirmed reports that the president of the United States is aboard Air Force One and will make a declaration of war, which is expected to be endorsed by Congress.”

  As he spoke, the din of low-flying fighter jets drowned out his words. He cupped his hand around his earpiece to hear Helen’s voice.

  “Bronson, is there any word about how widespread the fighting is?” she asked.

  “My understanding is that approximately three million troops were deployed within one hundred square miles of where I’m standing now,” he replied. “Another two million men and women are reported to be less than three hours away, fully mobilized.”

  Several explosions shook the ground and the sound of automatic weapons erupted. Bronson reached for his gas mask, then signed off, “This is Bronson Pearl, WNN News, near Armageddon, Israel.”

  The picture went dark as Bronson and his crew raced for a shelter, managing to leap into protective trenches, dropping and rolling just as a hail of shrapnel struck the sand bags above their heads.

  Chapter 9

  THE BLACK BAG HAD ALWAYS BEEN a dark joke to the president. The Cold War, after all, was long over and the once mighty Soviet Union had crumbled. China was an emerging industrial giant, and its influence was overwhelmingly economic. Even trouble spots like Korea were geographically contained problems.

  Only a few weeks earlier the chief executive and his Secret Service detail had even played catch with the little black bag. The notion that he had the special codes needed to trigger nuclear holocaust was simply beyond belief, even for a military man who had been trained to kill. But taking a life one-on-one was quite different from the horrors he now faced. Whole cities would be evaporated. The innocent would die with the guilty, and the living would curse their fate, envying the dead.

  The survivors would be left with a land so poisoned that birth abnormalities, slow starvation and deaths by cancer would be inevitable. Victory would mean a bleak existence beyond comprehension, yet he knew he had to act.

  The president took out his wallet to look at the snapshots of his children. His daughter, Cara, lived in New York, a first-strike target for retaliation. His son Zachary was in Los Angeles, another first-strike target. Their youngest, Brad, was on a tour of England, a country that would soon disappear entirely from the map.

  Doing his duty meant responsibility for the deaths of the children he loved, the grandchildren yet to be conceived. Tears streamed down his face as he ordered a courier to bring him the dreaded bag. It no longer mattered who was an enemy and who was a friend. The world was about to suffer unprecedented agony.

  Helen Hannah’s dress was rumpled, her shoulders hunched, her hair disheveled, and her eyes red. It was the floor director who suggested she send out for something else to wear and perhaps touch up her appearance.

  “World War III is breaking loose,” Helen had snapped. “Who cares about seeing Suzy Sunshine? If the missiles launch, no one’s going to care if I don’t qualify for the Newscasters’ Best Dressed List.”

  She paused as a voice from the control room announced that Dr. Stephen Horne was in the Los Angeles studio for a live interview. The UCLA professor was a leading expert on nuclear research and development.

  “Thank you for taking time to speak to us,” said Helen as she returned to the set. A heavyset man with a round face and bushy white beard appeared on the monitor. “Dr. Horne,” she continued, “we have heard that the Chinese used a tactical nuclear weapon against one of our ships on duty in the Mideast. Military experts are saying that a nuclear strike against one or more cities is a strong possibility. Just what exactly are we facing?”

  “First, the obvious question is whether the president of the United States is willing to commit nuclear weapons,” replied Dr. Horne. “A large number of missiles have already been removed from launch bunkers, but these can be retar-geted quickly. At the same time, there are tactical nuclear weapons, some of which can fit inside a suitcase to be transported anywhere in the world without discovery. And certainly countries such as Iraq and Pakistan are likely to be able to launch a limited nuclear strike. The current international arsenal has an explosive force equal to four tons of TNT for every man, woman, and child on earth.”

  The president of the United States sat behind a small desk on Air Force One, facing the camera. Behind him was the Presidential Seal and he hoped the image would be reassuring.

&nbs
p; “. . . Approximately eleven minutes ago,” he began, “we received confirmation that fifty-one ICBM’s, each containing multiple nuclear warheads, had been launched against us and our allies. The attack on the U.S.S. Nebraska was intended to destroy our willingness to respond. That was a mistake. The loss of even three-quarters of our defensive emplacements would still enable us to destroy any enemy anywhere in the world. We are now faced with the most frightening event of human history. We are experiencing nuclear attack and must decide if we should retaliate. The answer, I am deeply saddened to say, is that we must, if we have any chance of surviving as a nation and as a people. Moments before this broadcast I ordered a retaliatory strike. I take this step with the knowledge that I am responsible to the people of America, and that to do less would be to deny our obligation as the leader of the free world.”

  The WNN news set looked like a horror movie montage. One monitor carried live feed from the escalating battle in the Middle East. Another showed the firing of antiaircraft missiles from a coastal military position. A third replayed a tape of the president leaving the White House as a lead-in for his address from Air Force One. Various world leaders were also flashed on screens, some being evacuated, some addressing their citizens, and others meeting with Franco Macalousso. There were images of refugees fleeing advancing armies, abandoned children by the side of a road, crying mothers, and old people staring vacantly into the distance.

  In one corner Helen and her staff focused solely on the monitor displaying a live broadcast coming from the Denver bureau. The reporter was standing at a major intersection in the city, close to where heads of the American government had taken refuge.

  “For years Colorado has been headquarters for the Strategic Air Command,” he remarked. “Many of the people in this city have worked for the military and grew up with the threat of nuclear war. Yet as the years passed, the fears lessened and the likelihood seemed increasingly remote—until today. Yet what is certain is that . . .”

  Suddenly there was a deafening crash and the camera dropped to the ground, still broadcasting, showing cars run up against fire hydrants and telephone poles. There were screams in the distance, a sense of panic even from this skewed viewpoint.

  Helen swiveled in her chair and picked up a headset. Holding the microphone near her mouth, she instructed the engineer to patch her through to the scene. There was no response. Looking up to the control booth, she saw a single person remaining; a young college intern. Although the room was soundproof, she could see his mouth contorted in a scream of pure terror.

  Chapter 10

  FAR BE IT FROM ME TO GOSSIP, Lilly, but I think that new girl in Cosmetics is . . . Well, you know.” Ethel Bosley stood behind the checkout counter in Ladies’ Blouses talking to her friend. The department store was quiet, the lunch hour crowd having dissipated, and the after-school rush of mothers and their children still an hour away.

  “In a family way?” replied Lilly Nelson from Accessories, nodding. “She’s put on five, ten pounds since she’s been here, and you never see her eating much.”

  “And she’s always mooning about that Proctor boy in Electronics,” Ethel interjected. “They take their breaks together. They leave work together. They . . .”

  “. . . browse in Lingerie together,” Lilly said, finishing her friend’s sentence.

  “Excuse me,” said a customer who was trying to buy a blouse. “I hate to interrupt, but . . .”

  The saleswomen glanced in her direction, then blithely continued their conversation. “I know for a fact that this girl is one of those six-month babies,” said Ethel behind her hand.

  “The apple never falls far from the tree,” sniffed Lilly.

  “Excuse me,” persisted the customer. “I realize you’re busy, but I’m wondering if . . .”

  “Yes, we are busy,” snapped Ethel.

  Lord, give me patience, the customer thought and held up the blouse in her hands. “The blouse fits perfectly, but I’m afraid it’s the wrong color. Do you have any others in back?”

  “I suppose I could look,” sighed Ethel, appraising the older woman with a critical eye. She didn’t have time for someone making her run all over the stockroom before she made up her mind.

  “It’s to wear for a special event at my church,” the customer started to explain.

  “Yes, yes . . .” Ethel sighed dismissively, walking with deliberate slowness to the back of the store.

  In the next moment, a scream caught her by surprise, a high, piercing wail of pure terror. She was sure the store was being robbed and turned, expecting to see one of the security guards rushing to the rescue. Instead she saw Lilly pointing to where the customer had been a moment before.

  Ethel immediately assumed the woman had simply walked out, probably taking the blouse with her. Then she realized that a shoplifter wouldn’t have evoked the fear she saw on Lilly’s face.

  “Gone . . . ,” stammered Lilly, pointing. “She . . . vanished.”

  Ethel looked at the floor where Lilly was pointing. The blouse lay in a heap. But what was truly odd and unnerving were the old woman’s clothes, neatly folded in a small pile with her glasses resting on top.

  “She’s gone, Ethel,” Lilly said, her voice shaking. “One minute she was there. The next she was gone. Just . . . vanished . . .”

  Easton Blakely McNamara sat in the large motor home that served as his rolling office for the New Millennium Televival Ministry. The tent had been set up, the cameras were in position, and the satellite link was all set. Staff members were testing the two-way radios used for communication during the show.

  McNamara had been on the road for more than a month now, and contributions were running 12 percent ahead of initial projections. And that was just the domestic gross. The language dubs for China, Italy, Germany, France, and several Eastern European nations were still being tallied and the financial returns from those countries would not be known for another three weeks. Only then could the bottom line—the impact of what was being called “the world’s only television tent revival”—be fully assessed. If it all went as planned, Ellie Mae would have that Italian sports car she had been hinting about, and the kids could get the swimming pool they wanted for the Florida vacation home.

  “The people from the Hinson Home are in their wheel-chairs,” reported an aide, who went on to assure the televangelist that the most elderly, rather frail-looking would be right up front during the broadcast. During the healing call, they would jump from their wheelchairs and rush down the aisles.

  “Have you taken the information cards?” McNamara asked.

  “Murray’s running them through the computer right now,” the aide reported. “When he gets the problems most often reported, he’ll radio you as you work the crowd.”

  The so-called miracle healer checked the receiver he kept in his pocket, a thin wire running under his shirt and into a tiny earpiece. He removed the custom-made silk sports jacket he had purchased on his recent trip to London. It was inappropriate for the broadcast, and he kept a conservative polyester jacket bought off the rack from Sears to change into for work. He checked his hairpiece, removed his Rolex watch and his gold signet ring and, drinking the vodka-laced orange juice he needed before every performance, picked up his Bible and left the trailer.

  The theme music was already playing as McNamara ran down the aisle, bounded onto the stage, and shouted his famed opening line: “Do you have the faith of a mustard seed?”

  “Yes!” the audience shouted back, prompted by an aide who held up the audience cue cards. “Then let’s move some mountains!” the preacher boomed, breaking into a rousing hymn in his rich, lustrous tenor that matched his rugged handsome good looks. Small wonder he was one of the highest-grossing preachers on television, a Christian recording star, and the head of a video distribution company that made millions from the tapes of his shows and the special productions available only through the ministry.

  The show followed the tried-and-true formula the marke
ting staff had developed to gain the most response. The opening gospel number would be followed by Praise Time Testimony—taped interviews with people who claimed McNamara had changed their lives. But it was during the appeal for contributions that something went terribly wrong. Outside the tent, the sound of horns blaring and crashing cars startled McNamara, who glanced up at the engineer’s booth, then looked away, dazzled by the spotlights. For a moment McNamara’s vision was blurred. As it cleared, he was surprised to find himself surrounded by mostly empty wheelchairs. He spun around, realizing that most of the audience was gone, leaving only a few confused or frightened individuals, baffled staff members, and hired security guards. But the rest were gone and in their places, neatly folded and occasionally topped with eyeglasses, hearing aids, pacemakers, or crutches, were their empty clothes.

  “Where is everybody?” asked McNamara in shock.

  “Search me,” said the voice of the engineer from the control room. “One minute they were there, then came that loud noise and suddenly they were gone.”

  McNamara tried to remain calm; there had to be a logical explanation. It was then he remembered what other ministers had tried to tell him in recent years—the ones who saw television as a means to bring God’s Word to every corner of the earth, the ones whose fund-raising efforts were a vehicle for God’s work, limiting their own salaries and spending the rest on teaching, missionary work, and other ministries.

  For years he thought they were simply jealous of his success. His ratings were always higher than theirs, his weekly tally much greater. But now he realized they were sincere. They had given him books and videotapes and written long letters to him, trying to convince him that the events to come had been prophesied long ago. They had spoken of the Rapture, of a time of trial, of the reign of the Antichrist and the return of Jesus.