by Tim LaHaye
people came into the twenty-foot limit of his visibility. Many were dead. More sat rocking or lay weeping. All had given up looking for ways to see anything but a blackness so thick it disoriented
them. Those who tried to follow the music or Fortunato’s voice limped or shuffled with arms extended to the front or sides, tipping one way and then the other as if drunk or dizzy. They ran into each other, into buildings, tripped over debris, and many simply seemed to run out of gas, slowing, stopping, and tumbling. Rayford wished he could help, but there was nothing he could do.
On his way to Chang’s quarters, Rayford came up with an idea and changed course. He stayed on the elevator and reached the top floor of the palace. There he tiptoed past several executives and their aides, who talked on phones or sat before computers, trying to dictate but unable to see whether their messages were getting through.
The phone calls all had the same theme and tone.
Carpathia had a new assistant since the time when Rayford had worked with him. Chang had told him her name. He assumed she was the one on the phone at the desk outside Carpathia’s new office. Rayford noticed her double take when she heard him sit on a couch across from her area, but he said nothing and she continued her conversation.
“I don’t know,” she said with a whine. “He wants me to try to carry on as if I am not suffering like all the others. But I am, Mom.
There are little things I can do when he is in here, because he emits this glow of some sort and I can at least find a few things. But he’s called a meeting of the brass and they’re planning some sort of a pilgrimage. . . . No, I don’t get to go, and I don’t want to. He’s not even telling the rank and file that their bosses are leaving.
“Ooh! Ouch . . . oh, I don’t know how to describe it. Cramps, I guess. A headache like nothing I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some doozies. . . .”
She sounded American, but her back was to Rayford and he could not see the number on her forehead or hand.
“And it feels as if I’m carrying a huge weight on my shoulders, pressing on my spine. My hips hurt, my knees, ankles, feet. Like your arthritis, I suppose. But, Mom, I’m thirty-six years old. I feel like I’m seventy-five. . . . Yes, I’m eating. I feel my way back to my apartment and I can manage, but when I lie down, I want to sleep for a hundred years. But I can’t. . . . Well, because of the pain! No position relieves it. It’s like this darkness itself is pushing on me and causing all this, and it’s the same for everybody.”
Rayford shifted his weight and the woman froze. “Hold a minute, Mom.” She turned and Rayford saw the –6 on her forehead, confirming his guess. The United North American States. “Is someone there? May I help you?”
He was tempted to tell her he had some questions about the meeting but that he would wait until she was off the phone. But he knew she knew who was left on the decimated senior staff, and she would not recognize his voice. He wished he could speak soothingly to her, to say something Jesus would say. But she was beyond help now. Rayford had never felt so hog-tied.
“Sorry, Mom,” she said. “Now I’m hearing things. I’d better get off. This meeting’s coming up, and I don’t even know what he’s going to want. No one will be able to read anything unless they hold it up to his light, and there are twenty expected. . . . Yes, twenty. . . . I know. . . . Yeah, we’re down from thirty-six.
Imagine.
“Exciting? No. Not for a long time. He is not the man I thought he was. . . . Oh, in every way. Mean, cruel, vicious, egotistical, selfish. I swear, I’d need a thesaurus. . . . Well, I can’t! . . . No! Of course I can’t! Where would I go? What would I do? He knows what I know, and he wouldn’t be able to let me out of his control.
. . . No, now I just have to live with it. . . . I don’t know, Mom. It can’t end well. I don’t care anymore. Death will be a relief. . . .
Well, I’m sorry, but I mean it. . . . Now don’t, Mom. I’m not
planning anything rash. . . . I know you have. We all have. All but Uncle Gregory, I guess. He’s still holding out, is he? . . . How does he live? You know what happens if he’s found out. . . . No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. That way if somebody asks, I’ll be able to tell them I don’t know. Just tell him I’m proud of him and keep it up, but be careful. You and Dad be careful too. If you’re caught aiding him in any way . . .”
Rayford heard footsteps in the hall, and it was clear she did too.
“Gotta go, Mom. Stay well.”
She hung up and turned when the door swung open. A big, bony man of about fifty looked wide-eyed at Rayford and his mouth fell open. He pointed at Rayford’s forehead, and Rayford noticed the mark of the believer on him too.
“May I help you?” Carpathia’s assistant said. “Who is it?”
Rayford held a finger to his lips and pointed down the hall. He mouthed, “Five minutes,” and the man shut the door and ran off.
The woman shrugged. “Thanks for dropping by,” she muttered,
“whoever you were.”
“Whoever it was has left,” Rayford said.
She jumped. “And how long have you been here?”
“Long enough to know about Uncle Gregory.”
“I’m so stupid! I don’t know you, do I?”
“No.”
“You’re not senior staff.”
“I’m not.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“No, Krystall.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I can help your uncle.”
“Tell a soul, I’ll deny every word.”
“Don’t you want him helped?”
“You’re trying to trap me.”
“I’m not. If I was GC, I would not be able to see, would I?”
“You can’t see.”
“I can. And I can prove it. Your colors don’t match.”
“You couldn’t prove that by me, idiot. I can’t see them either. I dress by sense of touch these days, like everybody else.”
“My mistake. Hold up some fingers; I’ll tell you how many. . .
. Three, and your right hand is facing me, and the three fingers are your pinkie, ring, and middle.”
“How do you know that?”
“You mean how can I see?”
“You can’t see.”
“Then how do I know you’re showing me six fingers now, all five on your left and the index on your right, the backs of your hands toward me? I can see by your face you’re starting to be convinced. You’re hiding your hands under the desk now.”
Krystall pressed her lips together and looked as if she was about to cry. Rayford stood.
“Stay where you are,” she said, voice quavery, hands in her lap.
Rayford slipped around behind her. “That would be no fun,” he said, and she jumped and spun in her chair. “Now I can see your hands again,” he said. “They’re balled in your lap, thumbs pointing.”
“Okay, so you can see me. How?”
“Because this darkness is a curse from God, and I am one of his.”
“Are you serious?”
“I can help your uncle, Krystall.”
“How?”
“Were you implying he has not yet taken the mark?”
“What if I was?”
“Then it’s not too late for him. Is he a believer in Christ?”
“I don’t think so. I think he’s just a rebel.”
“A lucky one, if he acts quickly.”
“If you think you’re going to trick me into telling you where he’s hiding, you’re—”
“I don’t need to know that. You’d be foolish to risk telling me, and anyway, didn’t you tell your mother not to even tell you where he was?”
She didn’t respond.
“If you really want to help him, tell him to log on to the Web site of Dr. Tsion Ben-Judah. Can you remember it if I spell it for you?”
“You think I don’t know that name and how to spell it?”
“Sorry.”
&nbs
p; “It’s from his Web site that I know it’s too late for me and my parents, my whole family . . . who were so proud of me.”
“I’m sorry, Krystall.”
“You’re sorry? How do you think I feel?”
“Ma’am, you’re not going to tell anyone I was here, are you?”
“Why would I? They couldn’t see you anyway, and what
would they do? Feel around for you?”
“Good point.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Business. The prospect of helping your uncle was just a bonus.”
“Well, thanks for that. You’re a Judah-ite, eh?”
“A believer in Christ, to be more precise.”
“Tell me something then: what’s the deal with it being too late for people who already took Carpathia’s mark? We don’t still have our own free will?”
Rayford felt his throat tighten. “Apparently not,” he managed.
“I don’t quite understand it myself, but you have to admit, you had plenty of reasons to choose the other way.”
“For years.”
“You said it, Krystall.”
“So the statute of limitations ran out on me when I made the big choice.”
“Well, then for sure. Maybe even before that. Who knows the mind of God?”
“I’m starting to, sir.”
“How’s that?”
“This hurts. It hurts worse than the pain from the darkness. Just learned it too late, I guess, that you don’t mess with God.”
THREE
THE PROBLEM with the camouflaged service door open just a sliver was that it did not give Chloe the view she needed. While the door faced east, where the suspicious vehicle had stood idling just a block away last time she looked, the opening in the door gave her only a northeast view. The door would have to swing open to at least forty-five degrees to confirm that the car or truck or whatever it was was still there. Dare she risk the door catching a glint from a street lamp or making a sound or triggering some portable motion detector the GC might have brought along?
Chloe allowed herself to wish that the vehicle brought good news rather than bad. Maybe it bore a band of other underground believers who had heard about the Trib Force contingent that had burrowed itself beneath a former military base. Wouldn’t that be heaven, to discover more brothers and sisters who could come alongside to help, encourage, and defend? It was Chloe who had stumbled upon The Place in Chicago with its exciting band of self-taught believers. On the other hand, all that activity, their moving in with the Trib Force, was the first step in compromising the safe house. That many warm bodies moving about in an area the GC
had believed was quarantined tipped them off and brought them sniffing. If Chloe was to take credit for the new friends, she had to accept the heat for the end of a great safe house.
She couldn’t let that happen again. There were too many here, and though the place was under the earth, it had all the advantages the Strong Building had. For one thing, it had George Sebastian, who had expanded on what Chloe—and anyone else who was interested—had learned about combat training from Mac
McCullum on their mission to Greece. The rickety exercise
equipment George and Priscilla had salvaged from the military base was anything but state-of-the-art, but George thought that was an advantage.
“The newfangled machines do all the work for ya, anyway,” he said. He had refurbished and lubricated what was available, and within six weeks several Trib Forcers had spent enough time in a makeshift workout room to start toning neglected muscles. That was just a prerequisite, of course. What Chloe enjoyed most was George’s training. A lot of it was just common sense, but a lot of it wasn’t. He had been trained at the highest levels and proved to be an excellent teacher. Chloe felt she could handle herself and a weapon in almost any situation.
That training was what niggled at the back of her brain now and told her she was making a fundamental mistake. Not only was she away from her post, but no one would have a clue where she was. She had no way of communicating from a remote location. So if she was going to open the service door wide enough to see a potential enemy a block away or—for all she knew—standing directly in front of her, she had to make a decision. Was she opening the door quickly to step outside and shut it again, or was she going to keep a hand on the doorknob in case she needed to retreat fast?
She pressed her ear against the door to see if she could detect movement nearby, but her Uzi clattered against it, and her ear was covered by her sweatshirt hood and ski mask anyway. She pulled back, feeling like an idiot. Deep breath. Calm down. Let’s just step outside in one smooth motion and shut the door behind us.
Referring to herself in the collective we made her feel less alone, but she knew she was kidding herself.
Careful to take full, quiet strides, rolling heel to toe, Chloe pushed the door open, moved out, and shut it behind her. Was the vehicle still there? She’d have to wait a beat. If it was, its taillights
were off. Chloe moved to a row of tall bushes that hid her from the east, then spun silently to be sure no enemy had flanked her from another direction. She paused for a moment to drink in the freedom of simply being out in the crisp wee-hour air.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light provided only by street lamps, Chloe peered through the shrubbery and saw the white GC
personnel carrier parked where she had seen it from inside. Not only were its lights off, but it also didn’t appear to be idling.
The question was whether it was empty, and if so, how many troops had it brought, and where were they?
________
Rayford quickly tiptoed to the end of the corridor and found the big man rocking on the balls of his feet and wringing his hands.
“English?” he said with a thick German accent.
“Yes. I’m an American.”
“Brother, brother, brother!” the man whispered, grabbing Rayford in a fierce embrace. “Who are you? What is your name?
What are you doing here?”
The man felt solid, as if he could have been a manual laborer.
“I have the same questions for you, friend,” Rayford said, extricating himself. “But let’s make sure we won’t be overheard.”
“Good, good, yes. Where?”
“I have colleagues in private quarters here. You need to meet them. We can talk there.”
“I’m not sure I can wait that long! This is so exciting. How far?”
“Six stories down and a wing the other way,” Rayford said, leading him toward the elevator.
“You live here? In the palace, I mean? You work here?”
“Used to.” Rayford looked around and then leaned close. “I’m with the underground in San Diego with connections in Petra.
We’re getting our mole out of here while we can.”
“I was going to ask if you were the mole!”
“Used to be one of several. We are down to just this one, or at least that’s what we thought. You’re from here?”
“Not six miles away, can you believe it?”
At the bank of elevators three executives stood lightly touching each other and feeling for the buttons. Rayford and his new friend looked at each other knowingly and merely moved behind them into the first available elevator car.
“Got to be back up here on time,” one executive said.
“Yes,” another said. “Wish I had an audible watch.”
“I took the crystal off mine. I’m learning to feel what time it is.
Problem is, I keep snagging the hands on who knows what, and for all I know, I don’t have the right time anymore myself.” He pressed two fingers lightly on his watch. “I’m guessing 2:50. Gives us ten minutes.”
Rayford noticed the German check his own watch and raise his eyebrows. The elevator stopped two floors down, and the three felt their way off. But as the doors were shutting, Rayford’s companion reached out with both hands, tapped the timekeeper on a shoulder, and rubbed
his thumb against the man’s watch at the same time.
The tap made him hesitate, which made the man behind him bump into him. He said, “Hm?” and the third man said, “What?”
The big man pulled his arms back in, in time for the doors to shut unimpeded, and when it was just he and Rayford on the elevator, he burst into laughter. “I think that was the last time he’ll have the time right, you know? Now, may I introduce myself?”
“Not just yet,” Rayford said. He mouthed, “Most of the elevators and corridors are bugged.”
________
Foolhardy or brave? Chloe knew that was a matter of opinion and that she would likely hear from many who assumed the former.
But she was desperately curious about that personnel carrier, and even more, about the personnel. Keeping to the tree line and away from street lamps, she circled left and headed a block west, moving silently in the night as she had been taught.
She slowed as she came even with the vehicle from about thirty yards to the left of it, chastising herself for not bringing binoculars.
And the walkie-talkie. She could have left it off until she needed it, avoiding an inopportune transmission while still having the ability to communicate with Buck or anyone else in a pinch.
So far though, no pinch. Chloe moved closer, telling herself that if anyone sat in the truck the engine would be running or one or more windows would be open. None of that was so, but she didn’t want to think she could simply advance past it without knowing for sure. First turning in a slow circle to be sure no one was approaching or that she had not missed anyone, Chloe finally reached the truck and peered in the back windows. No one.
But from there she could not tell if anyone was in the front seat. If anyone was waiting, he or she would most likely be behind the wheel. She approached from the other side, staying below the window level until she could stand quickly and take her prey by surprise, if necessary.
________
Rayford was stunned by the increased number of ailing residents who filled the halls as he and his new buddy left the elevator and headed toward Chang’s quarters. Couples huddled in corners,
weeping. Others crawled, feeling their way to various rooms, pulling themselves up by door handles and running their fingers across numbers before knocking, pleading with friends to be let in.