It turned out to be Sergio. After a minute he called out to Bob. “I have your friend,” he said. “He is not dead…yet.”
“Klaus?”
“Yeah,” he answered, though he sounded a bit groggy. Sergio’s shot had caught the edge of Klaus’ Kevlar vest, wounding him under the arm and knocking the breath out of him. The impact, along with the fact he was standing on a steep incline, pushed him backwards until he tripped over the log. He whacked his head pretty hard when he landed. He didn’t lose consciousness but was confused and disoriented long enough for Sergio to find him.
“You okay?”
“It’s all right, Bob, I’m only bleeding a little,” Klaus said. “But he has a gun to my head.”
Bob peeked out from his tree, looking back at where the whole thing had started. Klaus’ gun was on the ground amidst the scattered bug traps. Bob crept out and grabbed it.
Then he heard something. A retching sound. Severe vomiting, followed by the sound of a man gasping for breath.
“What was that?”
“He threw up on my shoes,” Klaus said. “Did you hit him with the chlorohydrin?”
“Yeah.” Bob cupped his hands and called out, “Hey, buddy, let me explain what’s happening. That stuff I sprayed you with? It’s a neurotoxic agent. On top of your nausea, you’re probably getting dizzy, and if you don’t already have a headache, you’re about to get one.”
“It will take more than that to kill me,” Sergio boasted.
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty more to come,” Bob said. “Any minute now, your blood pressure’s going to bottom out like Enron stock. Then delirium will set in and you’ll start to hallucinate just before you have complete cardiac and respiratory collapse. We’ll just wait.”
To show what a man he was, Sergio fired a couple of shots in the general direction of Bob’s diagnosis. But his machismo was undermined when he threw up again. Still, he managed to keep the gun to Klaus’ head. Sergio spit the acid from his mouth before he said, “Come out and I won’t kill your friend.”
“Can’t do it,” Bob said. “I’d say we have a bit of a trust issue, me and you. But I tell you what, maybe we can make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“The kind where we all walk away,” Bob said. “But you better hurry.” He really had no idea if Sergio had been exposed to enough of the poison to kill him, but he figured it was best to act as if his death was inevitable.
Sergio tried to vomit some more but he was on empty. His abdominal muscles were sore. The membranes around his eyes and mouth burned like crazy. His head throbbed and his vision blurred. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was like a stick of chalk. He said, “Go ahead.”
“I’ve got the antidote.”
“Bullshit.” Again with the machismo.
“Are you kidding?” Bob couldn’t believe this guy. “You think I’m going to strap a tank of this shit on my back without having an antidote? Let Klaus go and throw out your gun. I’ll toss you the cure,” Bob said. “What do you say? Your time’s running out.”
After a moment, Sergio said, “I will let your friend go. But I keep my gun.”
“All right,” Bob said. “But then you go your way, and we’ll go ours. Deal?”
“Deal.”
A moment later, Klaus came walking through the brush. “All right,” Bob said. “Here it comes.” He pulled a small glass vial marked Rapture from his pocket and tossed it toward Sergio. “Now, don’t drink that,” he said. “It’s a topical. Rub it on your skin where the poison absorbed.”
“How fast does this work?”
“Trust me,” Bob said. “You’ll forget about the poison in no time.”
Chapter Eighty-eight
“So the witch hunt is officially underway,” Winston Archer said into camera one. “Activist judges have appointed an unaccountable special prosecutor to look into who may have leaked the names of a couple of guys whose work was, debatably, classified but hardly a matter of serious national security.” He turned to his guest, and said, “Mr. Treadwell, what do you know about the state of that investigation?”
“Winston, I’m sorry to say my attorneys have advised me not to comment on any grand jury proceedings with which I may be familiar,” Treadwell said. “It’s ongoing, and frankly I’m not worried about it, because I answer to a court of higher rank.” Treadwell pointed not-too-subtly toward the ceiling.
Archer nodded his understanding and said, “But don’t you think that the mere act of appointing a special prosecutor will be taken as a tremendous victory by the terrorists?”
“I can’t imagine how they could see it any other way,” Treadwell said.
“Fair enough,” Archer said. “Let’s move on to less temporal matters.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “This morning when I got to the set, my producer handed me this interesting little document.” Archer put on his reading glasses. “Let’s see, in the last twenty-four hours there have been two major volcanic eruptions, one on Montserrat, the other in Ecuador. Another deadly tsunami in Indonesia. Ten thousand more dead from famine in Africa resulting from the ongoing drought. A super-typhoon hit China with winds nearly 140 miles an hour, killing thousands. The list goes on and on and, although the number of deaths from insects seems to be down a bit, the list does include another earthquake in La-La Land this morning.” He pulled off his glasses and pointed an earpiece at Treadwell. “What do you make of all this?”
“Well, I think it’s both revealing and affirming,” Treadwell said. “One of the great gifts we have been given is satellite technology, which allows up to know almost instantaneously what’s going on all over the world. We can see if all is calm and idyllic or, when it’s upon us, it can give us a clear picture of what may very well be the End of Times. I think it’s fascinating.”
Archer gave a serious nod and said, “Because it’s well documented that these sorts of events will increase both in frequency and intensity as the time draws near for His return.”
“If I have the quote right,” Treadwell said with a squint, “there will be famine and pestilence and earthquakes in diverse places.” He shook his head. “I’m certainly not going to argue with Matthew 24:7.”
“Well, no,” Archer said. “You’d be up for a week!”
The audience burst into laughter and applause.
Treadwell chuckled and said, “Twenty-four, seven. I’m going to steal that one.”
“Feel free,” Archer said before turning serious again. “Now yesterday we were talking about the lib-brull press coverage of the fires in Holly-weird. Since then—as if to warm the heart of this old broadcaster—the offices of two more so-called ‘talent’ agencies, a television production facility, and one of the big rap record labels were also burned down.” Archer broke into a giddy smile and clapped his hands like a cartoon clown before returning to his sober newsman face and saying, “Naturally, the lamestream press continues to play the blame game on this, allegedly ‘reporting’ on who might have set the fires.”
“As if it matters,” Treadwell said. “You know, it’s almost as if they don’t understand the effect of all the negative stuff they put out there. Of course they say, ‘But it’s the truth.’” He shook his head. “What difference does that make? If it’s negative, it has a corrosive effect on the public’s perceptions. I think we should be looking for the positive in everything.”
“Exactly,” Archer said. “We need to see this as an opportunity.”
“I agree!” He pointed at Archer and said, “People need to see this for what it is: The birth pangs of a new Hollywood. Now we don’t know if Jesus is coming tomorrow or a year from tomorrow, but we do know He’s coming. And in the meanwhile, people of faith must do whatever they can to help make this a truly Christian nation.”
“The choice is simple,” Archer sa
id. “Do you want to live in a Christian nation or have to get out there and choose a wedding dress for your son’s gay marriage?”
“Amen, Archer!”
Chapter Eighty-nine
A young nurse approached the doctor standing outside Leon’s room. She peeked inside and said, “That’s him? That’s the guy who saved Lauren Bacall from those bugs?”
“That’s the man,” the doctor said as he wrote something on the chart. “A genuine hero.”
“Wow.” The nurse shook her head sadly. “How ironic.”
“Yeah, ironic.” Given the news he was about to share with them.
The nurse looked back into the room. Lauren was fluffing his pillows. “Do they know?”
The doctor shook his head. “On my way to tell them now.”
Inside, after some small talk, the doctor said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but the infection is resistant to antibiotics.”
Lauren took a sharp breath and covered her mouth with her hand. Then she said, “You mean, it’s…”
“It’s what’s known as a super-bug.” The doctor nodded gravely. “Vancomycin-resistant staph aureus,” he said. “It’s a gram-positive coccus, a non-spore-forming facultative anaerobe.”
“There’s nothing you can do?”
The doctor could only shake his head.
“How long does he have?”
The doctor looked at the chart for a moment. “Hard to say. Too many variables at work. Could be hours, could be days.” He took a syringe from the small case he carried. “What he needs now is rest.” He injected a sedative into a port in the I.V. line. “He should relax now.”
When the doctor left, Lauren dried her eyes and pulled the chair close to the bed. She stroked Leon’s arm and said, “You’re going to be fine.”
Leon turned his head toward her. “The infection doesn’t cause deafness,” he said. “I heard the prognosis. It’s over.”
“Oh, stop. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Lauren said. “I’ve got a call into a specialist I know at Cedars. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“You’re sweet.” Leon gave a little laugh. “All the things I’ve done in my life? Close calls, car chases, shoot-outs? It’s not how I expected to go.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Lauren said. “You’ve got a script to finish.”
He sighed. “You may have to finish that yourself.”
“No way. It’s a story only you can tell right, remember?”
“Yeah, well…that was before we added the part about the hero being handcuffed to his mother-in-law in Las Vegas.”
Lauren smiled. “That was just a ‘what-if,’ silly. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want.”
“Thanks.” His eyelids were getting heavy. He took a long, deep breath.
She sat there for a moment, just looking at him. Then she leaned close and said, “Hey, I just had an idea for another script, you want to hear it?”
“Sure.” He closed his eyes and said, “Pitch me.”
“Okay. It’s a medical-spy thriller,” she said. “Sort of, I don’t know, Outbreak meets The Bourne Identity, but about something, you know? Not just action for action’s sake.”
“I like it so far.”
“Yeah? I’m thinking a handsome French intelligence agent on the trail of terrorists.”
Leon gave a sleepy nod then said, “Maybe he falls in love with a beautiful woman he meets at a bar.”
She smiled as a tear came to her eye. “Boy meets girl, exactly. That’s good.”
“How’s it end?” Leon asked. “At the Elvis chapel in Vegas?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she said. “But happy.” She wiped the tear from her eye. “I’d like a happy ending.”
Chapter Ninety
After the first day, someone brought an orange crate for him to stand on so that he might be seen and heard by more of the gathered crowd. He wore the traditional himation over a sleeveless, ankle-length tunic of rough, dirty wool spun by means not employed in a thousand years. His wide belt and sandals were hand-crafted from ancient scarred leather. His scraggly gray beard and sunken eyes gave him the look of a man who had spent time wandering the desert without food.
“I’m standing near the corner of Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards,” Traci Taylor said. “Where, for the past two days, this mysterious man has been preaching to ever-growing crowds.”
Ronnie zoomed in on Father Paul’s ascetic face as he said, “I am the one about whom it was written: I will send my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way before you.”
A young man in the crowd turned to his friend and said, “Luke, chapter seven, verse twenty-seven.”
“He is Elijah,” the friend said.
“A witness to the Book of Revelation,” said another. “But where is Enoch?”
Ronnie panned the camera back to Traci. “In our life and times,” she said, “there has been no shortage of people claiming to be prophets. But few have convinced as many as this man in so short a time.”
Ronnie panned back to Father Paul. Some in the crowd were reaching out to touch the hem of his garment. Others pleaded for answers to questions that have haunted for generations. As the camera showed the scene, Traci continued by saying, “Although he has never actually claimed to be the prophet Elijah, those who have heard him preach believe that’s exactly who he is. From his authentic attire and his grasp of scripture to his facility with Latin, Greek, and what I believe is Aramaic, he has captivated this crowd.”
Ronnie panned back to Traci as she said, “But who exactly is, or rather, was this Elijah? I asked Dr. Karen Watson, professor of comparative theology at USC.”
Cut to a prerecorded segment with Dr. Watson in her office. “Elijah,” she said, “was a ninth-century B.C. prophet from the northern kingdom during the reigns of Ahab, Ahaziah, and Jehoram. Many Christians believe Elijah, like Enoch, never died, and is alive today. He was said to have been taken into heaven where he lived in the presence of God Himself. According to popular interpretations, Elijah’s return to earth is a precursor to the Second Coming.”
Cut back to Traci who said, “All of which raises an age-old question, namely, when a man shows up claiming to be a prophet, how do you know if he’s telling the truth? The Bible warns repeatedly of false prophets, though it doesn’t give specific instructions on how to tell a charlatan from a lunatic from the real thing. Can such a claim be proved or disproved? Are such things beyond the reach of reason? Is it only by faith that we can know the answer?” Traci shook her head. “Not if you’re on the Eyewitness Action News team, where seeing is believing. If this man is a prophet, it’s news, and we’ll be there to cover the story, no matter how long it takes.”
Ronnie panned across the sea of faces. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Prophet Elijah! When is He coming?”
Father Paul held up an open hand, gazing at it as if it contained a crystal ball. “We know not the day or the hour,” he said. Then after a moment he continued, “But I do know the place.”
The crowd gasped.
Father Paul lowered his hand. Someone helped him down from the orange crate. The crowd, estimated at over fifty thousand, parted like the Red Sea. “It is this way,” he said. “Follow me.”
Like sheep trailing a shepherd, the throngs followed Father Paul down the wide road, toward Fairfax and the stretch of Wilshire Boulevard known as the Miracle Mile.
Chapter Ninety-one
Father Paul’s supplement to Katy’s plan was inspired. It created a ticking bomb that every news organization on earth had to cover.
And that was the whole point.
Feeding into the media-induced End Time frenzy, the story of Elijah’s return took over the talking-heads circuit, generating more heate
d debate than a presidential stain on a WMD. From The Winston Archer Report to HardHeads—rabbis, ministers, and imams were going head-to-head with preachers, cardinals, and grand lamas. Some of the debates were pitched battles of chapter and verse, others were nuanced and erudite explorations of history and etymology, most were fraught with self-serving error in interpretation and translation.
Still, it was generally agreed that if this man was, indeed, Elijah, then the Second Advent had to be near. “However, if he is a fraud,” one of them pointed out, “we will know soon, because scripture tells us Elijah will return three days before the coming of the Messiah.”
The result was the most televised news event in history. Broadcast crews from153 of the 192 countries on earth had set up all around the sprawling five-point intersection where Father Paul had led the flock.
It was also the place where, for the past two days, certain men and women had been preparing the way for His return in accordance with Katy’s plan.
Fanned by the unbridled media coverage, the crowd expanded by the hour. By sundown, police estimated there were nearly three-quarters of a million people. It was like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, except that instead waiting for a ball to drop, the crowd—in the grip of a virulent, reason-resistant, Apocalyptic fever—was hoping for bodies to come exploding out of their graves.
As the multitude spread, denominations began forming camps, displaying signs to declare their brand of Christianity, like delegates at a political convention. Anabaptists held ground near a Starbucks on the south side of Wilshire. Calvinists had staked out an area in the median on San Vicente. New Adventists had the sidewalk at the corner of Sweetzer. Orthodox reconstructionists were up front, near the small stage someone had built for the Prophet Elijah.
The whole thing started out peacefully enough. Starting at dawn people were testifying, enjoying fellowship, and singing hymns.
But late that afternoon, a group of charismatic Pentecostals took umbrage when they heard a Lutheran confessionalist saying, “How many snake handlers does it take to change a light bulb?”
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