Apocalypse

by Paul Lalonde

  “You want to see if Bronson’s all right because we’re having so much trouble with our satellite link,” the producer continued. “I’m sure he’s okay. Now get back to work.”

  “Work?” Helen echoed angrily. She wanted to cry, to bury her head on the desk and sob. But she wasn’t about to give her producer the satisfaction. “This isn’t work. This is torture.”

  Fuming, she started to walk away, then realized suddenly that she hadn’t been able to reach her grandmother since the crisis began. Returning to her desk, Helen tried to telephone the apartment. There were eight rings, nine, ten . . . still no answer, just Edna Williams’s voice on her answering machine. She had called a half dozen times that day, and even tried the office of her grandmother’s church, hoping someone would know where she was, but the church telephone also went unanswered.

  She had to see Edna, had to make certain she was safe. Things were still too hectic at the network for her to go to her apartment. Tomorrow. She had been promised some time off tomorrow. She could stop on her way home.

  They gathered in the woods in Framingland, a small, rural Wyoming community too tiny for any map. The only business in town was a combination gas station, bar, restaurant, and general store and when anything more was needed, it usually fell to Joe Nelson to get it. He was the only one with an all-terrain vehicle large enough to hold a full supply of groceries from the “big city”—a town of 3,500 almost forty miles away.

  Mostly people lived off the land, their only concession to modern life being solar panels to generate electricity or a hydraulic pump to bring up well water.

  The true patriot protectors had begun to arrive within hours of the Rapture. Some reported seeing black helicopters hovering with high-intensity lights just before people around them disappeared. Others blamed the Mormon Church, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Avon Cosmetics, and Tupperware salespeople for what had taken place. What they could not decide was whether the disappeared were the enemy, part of a Communist military force, or were innocents being held prisoner. No ransom demands had been made, but a terrorist might be biding his time.

  None of them had listened to President Macalousso’s speech. They were convinced that the media were controlled by their enemies, though they could not be certain just who their enemies were so, instead, they gathered together in the woods far from prying eyes, deploying guards to protect the camp where they would build their paranoid new world.

  The work had been intense and she had eaten lunch at her desk, dozing over some computer printouts when she was awakened by the telephone. The shrill cry of the phone was so annoying and her groggy state of mind so numb that she almost missed what she had been waiting to hear. It was the news director, calling to tell her that a report from the Mount of Olives was coming in.

  “Who’s filing the report?” asked Helen, suddenly wide awake.

  “Bronson Pearl,” came the answer. “He’s been asking about you, Helen. I told him you’ve been pretty much stuck here because of all the pressure.”

  “Bronson’s all right?” she cried.

  “Bronson’s fine. We’ve had technical trouble out of the Middle East and this is the first time we’ve been able to reestablish our link.”

  She dropped the telephone and, running down the hall to the studio, took her position and attached the lapel microphone as she heard the countdown to going live.

  “As you know we have had several hours without contact from the Middle East,” she began. “However, we have restored communication and now have a direct linkup with Bronson Pearl, who is standing near the Western Wall in Old Jerusalem. Bronson?”

  As Helen watched the monitor, Bronson Pearl appeared in the midst of a crowd of people gathered around the bright white stone of the Western Wall.

  “Helen,” he reported, “it’s hard to know what to say about the events of the past few hours. No one alive today will ever forget where they were when they realized that imminent nuclear destruction was just moments away. Here, near the valley of Armageddon, it was then, as we have seen, that European Union President Franco Macalousso arrived to broker a comprehensive peace agreement. Yet, even as his helicopter was hovering, missiles were being fired from bunkers around the world. As President Macalousso stepped from his helicopter, the unforgettable, unexplainable event took place. Sirens wailed, cars crashed, planes fell from the sky as people simply disappeared off the face of the earth. Only their clothing and whatever else they were wearing at the time remained. There was no smell of gunpowder, no burn marks from some sophisticated laser. They just . . . vanished. But in the midst of this incredible event, President Macalousso raised his arms and commanded it all to stop. He shouted to the winds, and suddenly there was peace. The missiles also vanished. They did not explode in mid-flight. They were not called back to the launch sites. They disappeared as though they never existed. A short time later, President Macalousso spoke to the nations of the world. We are replaying the speech he gave.”

  “Cut to the video,” said the WNN engineer as Helen hoped there might be a break so she could speak directly to Bronson.

  Footage appeared of the arrival of Macalousso’s helicopter. “Citizens of the world,” he began. “We are living in an extraordinary moment in history, a time when I have come to fulfill what is written. Until today I have been known for my work with the United Nations, and as president of the great union of Europe, a confederation larger than the Roman Empire, I worked among the leaders of the world to halt conflict, but I also refrained from bringing the real truth to the world until the appropriate time. Now you are at last seeing who I am, and the power I bring to lead you into your destiny. The people of the world will become one as we walk together toward the light of truth, a light hidden for more than two thousand years. You stood today on the brink of self-destruction, revealing the depths of your souls. You have shown your foolish pride and the hate that would lead you to the devastation of everything you have built, nurtured, and held dear. Parents were ready to kill their children, neighbors were ready to kill neighbors, leaders of nations were willing to subject their people to death in order to triumph over other people just like themselves. There were no restraints. There was no self-control. Your actions signaled that my time had come. I traveled to this spot, sacred for so many, to take my rightful place. I have spoken the word and the nuclear weapons have been vaporized. I have spoken the word and the chemical clouds have harmlessly dissipated. I have spoken the word and armed factions have set aside their weapons. And most important, because I understand your fears and worries, I have spoken the word and anyone whose mind was not open to the truth has vanished. Those who have disappeared were the hate-filled people with closed minds. Their continued presence would have prevented the evolution of those who remain. Like a weed removed from a garden, like a cancer excised from the body, you have been freed from their influence to grow into the beings I created you to be. Your destiny is beyond anything you ever imagined. My promise is that you will achieve that destiny. I have the power to do it! I have the power!”

  Chapter 13

  THE WALK TO HER GRANDMOTHER’S APARTMENT was even more surreal for Helen Hannah. The near cataclysmic destruction that had been narrowly averted seemed to have had no effect on the neighborhood.

  A woman known locally as Crazy Connie was dancing down the sidewalk while pushing a shopping cart piled high with the clothing, eyeglasses, hearing aids, wallets, and purses of the vanished.

  A man who smelled of his own urine, with several teeth missing and his face in need of a shave, lunged at Helen, grasping her jacket sleeve with a filthy hand. He became distracted for a moment, letting go of her sleeve and wandering toward another passerby, talking in a singsong voice.

  The street people who lived in her grandmother’s neighborhood were handling the cataclysmic events the best way they knew how. Some were nodding in doorways, consuming anything intoxicating enough to blur the memory of the past few days. Others were babbling incoherently, no longer able to grasp
the difference between reality and fantasy. Finally Helen arrived at the apartment entrance and rang the buzzer to her grandmother’s flat. There was no response.

  Helen reached in her purse and removed the keys her grandmother had entrusted to her. Climbing to her grandmother’s floor she knocked, listened, then used the other key to get inside. As she entered the front hallway, her eye caught the flashing red message light on the answering machine. There were seventeen unchecked calls according to the counter display and she pressed the play button, listening to the first few messages.

  “Edna? It’s me, Doris. Have you been watching the news? It’s just like Pastor Holmes was talking about last week. I really think this may be it. I think the day of the Lord could be . . . today.”

  “Grandma, are you there?” Helen heard her own voice. “It’s me. Helen. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”

  “Grandma. It’s Helen again. Please call me. I need to talk to you.”

  “Grandma, it’s Helen. Are you all right? Grandma?”

  “Grandma?” whispered Helen as she stopped the answering machine and started nervously down the hall. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “let her be safe. Please let her be safe.”

  Helen heard a voice before realizing it was only the television. Her grandmother had left the set turned on. She moved to the kitchen where she found a half-prepared cup of tea, a pot on the stove, and a tea bag opened and resting on the side of the cup. On the floor in front of the stove were a dress, a pair of shoes, a hearing aid, and earrings, all in a neat pile. Helen also noticed the gold chain her grandmother wore and for the first time saw that attached to it was a key with a small piece of paper wrapped around it, and held in place with a rubber band.

  Helen worked the rubber band from the key and opened the note. “My dear Helen,” it read. “I will be gone when you read this, but do not worry. I’m with the Lord now. I told you about the Rapture and how I felt it would come in my lifetime. What I’ve been reading in the Bible is true, Helen, and though you have been left behind, it’s not too late for you. God will help you and all those who ask. That is all you have to do. Just ask. The key is for a small box in which you will find some information you will need. Know that I love you even as we are apart. Grandma.”

  Helen stared at the note uncomprehendingly. This was not a suicide note. It was a message left by someone who knew she was going someplace—but where?

  “Grandma . . . ,” Helen whispered. She touched the clothing, tentatively at first, then lifted it to her face. She inhaled the familiar aroma of laundry soap mixed with a hint of perfume and closed her eyes, trying to imagine she was once again embracing the gentle Christian soul who had given her so much, comforted her so often, and loved her unconditionally. It was through her grandmother’s selfless actions that she had first begun to understand the love of God, just as it was the loss of her parents that had somehow deepened her grandmother’s own spirituality. And now she was gone, except for this note and this key. It was as though Edna was reaching out to her from . . . From where?

  Helen took the clothing to the table, lovingly setting it down as though her grandmother might any moment come in and appreciate her folded blouse and skirt. She returned to the living room and, for an instant she was a little girl again, fearful she would be scolded for snooping in her grandmother’s drawers, looking for secrets and treasures.

  Tears filled her eyes. The finality of what was happening was beginning to sink in, yet each time she touched one of her grandmother’s belongings she expected her to return as if nothing had happened.

  It was all so confusing, she thought as she began weeping again. She did not want to think about yet another loss, yet another loved one taken from her in an instant. She needed more time to talk, to ask the questions, get the answers she yearned for. She wanted to shout at her grandmother for leaving her behind, an irrational impulse at once shameful and embarrassing. Yet she also knew it was all too human, part of a grieving process that might never be complete because she would never truly know where her grandmother had gone. But it was time to stop thinking so much. She returned to the search, looking for whatever might make some sense of the moment.

  Meanwhile, the television in the living room continued to broadcast WNN reports from around the world.

  The image of a tired General Alizar appeared. He had found himself on the front lines of the Israeli defense forces just seconds before the vanishing began. “I have never seen anything like it,” said the somber general. He paused and looked away, dazed, as though living the experience all over again. “They were all over us,” he continued at last. “As prepared as we were for their coming, their numbers were so vast there was nothing we could do. Our front lines were overrun and warplanes and missiles filled the sky. We knew that Jerusalem and Tel Aviv would be rubble within seconds, but there was nothing we could do but fight and pray. It all seemed so futile, so horrible. We knew what we would lose, knew that the bravest of our fighting men and women would die in the next few moments. It was then that we sent word to Bersheba, our nuclear site. We had made the decision that we were not going to go down alone. The prime minister had given the order to counterattack with every weapon in our arsenal.” As the camera moved for a close-up, Alizar seemed to have aged ten years.

  “Then it all stopped,” he whispered. “I know no other way to describe what happened. I . . . I remember in my youth, reading in the Bible, of God’s intervention in the lives of my people. But I thought they were just stories. Exaggerations. But only God Himself, directly intervening in all our lives, could have accomplished the miracle that has happened. Warplanes turned in their flight and returned to their bases. And the missiles were gone. Vanished. One moment they were in the sky, the next moment they were not. My eyes were not deceived. My mind was not clouded. They were there and they were not, all thanks be to God. And the ground troops, the thousands upon thousands of men who were advancing on my people, suddenly stopped as one. There was a silence, a serenity. It was as though a glorious peace descended. My fear had vanished. My anger was gone. I could embrace my enemy or my brother with the same joy.” The general’s voice became broken, tears filling his eyes. “Only later did we learn that the Messiah himself had returned to Jerusalem at that very moment.”

  Helen, looking through her grandmother’s effects, heard the word Messiah and turned to the set to listen. A NATO officer was now speaking.

  “I am not a religious man,” he said. “I am not an emotional man. I deal with analysis, counter-intelligence, strategic planning . . . I know fact from fantasy. But I know what I saw. There were more missiles in the air than our people could keep track of. It was as though every one had decided to make a first strike, to win at all cost because there would be no second chance. None of us had ever conceived of such a possibility. Then silence came so suddenly I thought I had gone deaf. Everything just stopped. The missiles were gone. The radar could not track them. One minute it was a war to end all wars, to end all life. The next minute there was a peace such as the world has never known. I saw it all with my own eyes.”

  Helen moved to her grandmother’s bedroom where a well-worn Bible was on the nightstand. A note attached to it read, “In the event of my disappearance, I want my granddaughter, Helen Hannah, to have this Bible. The notes in the margins are my thoughts and prayers as I read it. The underlined passages will help her better know what has happened. I only wish I could be with her when she reads it, to show her how it can bring comfort.”

  Again Helen cried. She took the book, then continued looking until she found, on the floor of the closet, an old-fashioned strongbox. Helen used the key to open it, finding a videotape and some books inside.

  WNN was meanwhile broadcasting from Jordan where the name General Assad flashed on the screen under the lean, hard, and weathered face of a man in his forties, a powerful figure and an obvious leader.

  Behind him were tanks and troops preparing to leave the area and return home.

&
nbsp; “We knew the Israeli defense forces,” General Assad said. “We had studied them for many years, knew their strengths and weaknesses, knew the land. This was to be a textbook battle. We had planned our attack to overwhelm them, which we did. We thought the price would be worth the effort and we were on our way to victory. The trouble started with our radio communication. Everything was scrambled, and none of us could speak to each other. Our own language became impossible to understand. Then our tanks and trucks stopped, as though someone had taken the engines. Our mechanics checked the equipment and found it all to be working perfectly. Yet nothing would move. We tried to shoot our guns, to kill, yet bullets would not fire. Our handguns were useless, as well as our rifles. We did not think, in the midst of such panic, that Allah had returned. He had come to the Mount of Olives to make his message known. Allah delivered us from our enemies. Allah delivered our enemies from us. Praise be to Allah.”

  The broadcast switched to a Pentagon briefing room where Richard Stanfield was speaking. “I am speaking only for myself when I say I am not a religious man,” he was saying. “Yet what has happened around the world must be the direct intervention of God. There can be no other explanation. A first-strike launch of three hundred missiles containing nuclear warheads would have eliminated an estimated two-thirds of the world’s population. There was no power on earth that could stop what we had unleashed. No one was protected. We had launched forces from all sides that should have ended life as we know it. But the fact that I am here today proves that the hand of God is in the affairs of men. It is God who let me live. It is God in whom I believe with a faith that cannot be shaken.”

  Helen turned off the television and slipped the tape her grandmother had left into the VCR. A program entitled “Left Behind” appeared on the screen. In it Jack and Rexella Van Impe were talking about the Rapture, Armageddon, and the last days. The tape had been cued to a specific segment of the program that she realized her grandmother probably wanted her to watch.