Left Behind: A Novel of the Earth's Last Days

by Tim LaHaye

  Now he was getting somewhere. Who was this who testified of these things, and what were these things? The quoted words were in red. What did that mean? He looked through the Bible and then noticed on the spine, “Words of Christ in red.” So Jesus said he was coming quickly. Had he come? And if the Bible was as old as it seemed, what did “quickly” mean? It must not have meant soon, unless it was from the perspective of someone with a long view of history. Maybe Jesus meant that when he came, he would do it quickly. Was that what this was all about? Rayford glanced at the last chapter as a whole. Three other verses had red letters, and two of those repeated the business about coming quickly.

  Rayford could make no sense of the text of the chapter. It seemed old and formal. But near the end of the chapter was a verse that ended with words that had a strange impact on him. Without a hint of their meaning, he read, “Let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who wishes take the water of life without cost.”

  Jesus wouldn’t have been the one who was thirsty. He would not have been the one who wished to take the water of life. That, Rayford assumed, referred to the reader. It struck him that he was thirsty, soul thirsty. But what was the water of life? He had already paid a terrible cost for missing it. Whatever it was, it had been in this book for hundreds of years.

  Rayford idly leafed through the Bible to other passages, none of which made sense to him. They discouraged him because they didn’t seem to flow together, to refer to each other, to have a direction. Language and concepts foreign to him were not helping.

  Here and there he saw notes in the margins in Irene’s delicate handwriting. Sometimes she simply wrote, “Precious.” He was determined to study and find someone who could explain those passages to him. He was tempted to write precious next to that verse in Revelation about taking the water of life without cost. It sounded precious to him, though he couldn’t yet make it compute.

  Worst of all, he feared he was reading the Bible too late. Clearly he was too late to have gone to heaven with his wife and son. But was he too late, period?

  In the front flyleaf was last Sunday’s church bulletin. What was this, Wednesday morning? Three days ago he had been where? In the garage. Raymie had begged him to go with them to church. He promised he would next Sunday. “That’s what you said last week,” Raymie had said.

  “Do you want me to fix this four-wheeler for you or not? I don’t have all the time in the world.”

  Raymie was not one for pushing a guilt trip. He just repeated, “Next Sunday?”

  “For sure,” Rayford had said. And now he wished next Sunday were here. He wished even more that Raymie were there to go with him because he would go. Or would he? Would he be off work that day? And would there be church? Was anyone left in that congregation? He pulled the bulletin from Irene’s Bible and circled the phone number. Later that day, after he checked in with Pan-Continental, he would call the church office and see if anything was going on.

  He was about to set the Bible on the bed table when he grew curious and opened the front flyleaf again. On the first white-papered page he saw the inscription. He had given this Bible to Irene on their first wedding anniversary. How could he have forgotten, and what had he been thinking? She was no more devout than he back then, but she talked about wanting to get serious about church attendance before the children came along. He had been angling for something or trying to impress her. Maybe he thought she would think him spiritual if he gave her a gift like that. Maybe he was hoping she would let him off the hook and go to church by herself if he proved his spiritual sensitivity with this gift.

  For years he had tolerated church. They had gone to one that demanded little and offered a lot. They made many friends and had found their doctor, dentist, insurance man, and even country club entrée in that church. Rayford was revered, proudly introduced as a 747 captain to newcomers and guests, and even served on the church board for several years.

  When Irene discovered the Christian radio station and what she called “real preaching and teaching,” she grew disenchanted with their church and began searching for a new one. That gave Rayford the opportunity to quit going at all, telling her that when she found one she really liked, he would start going again. She found one, and he tried it occasionally, but it was a little too literal and personal and challenging for him. He was not revered. He felt like a project. And he pretty much stayed away.

  Rayford noticed another bit of Irene’s handwriting. It was labeled her prayer list, and he was at the top. She had written, “Rafe, for his salvation and that I be a loving wife to him. Chloe, that she come to Christ and live in purity. Ray Jr., that he never stray from his strong, childlike faith.” Then she had listed her pastor, political leaders, missionaries, world conflict, and several friends and other relatives.

  “For his salvation,” Rayford whispered. “Salvation.” Another ten-dollar church word that had never really impressed him. He knew Irene’s new church was interested in the salvation of souls, something he’d never heard in the previous church. But the closer he had gotten to the concept, the more he had been repelled. Didn’t salvation have something to do with confirmation, baptism, testifying, getting religion, being holy? He hadn’t wanted to deal with it, whatever it was. And now he was desperate to know exactly what it meant.

  Ken Ritz radioed ahead to airports in suburban New York, finally getting clearance to touch down at Easton, Pennsylvania. “You know,” Ritz said, “these are the old stompin’ grounds of Larry Holmes, once the heavyweight champion of the world.”

  “The guy that beat Ali?”

  “One and the same. If he was still around, whoever was takin’ people might’ve got a knock on the noggin from ol’ Larry. You can bet on that.”

  The pilot asked personnel in Easton if they could arrange a ride to New York City for his passenger.

  “You’re joking, right, Lear?”

  “Didn’t mean to, over.”

  “We got a guy can get him to within a couple of miles of the subway. No cars in or out of the city yet, and even the trains have some kind of a complicated route that takes them around bad sites.”

  “Bad sites?” Buck repeated.

  “Say again,” Ritz radioed.

  “Haven’t you been watching the news? Some of the worst disasters in the city were the result of disappearing motormen and dispatchers. Six trains were involved in head-ons with lots of deaths. Several trains ran up the back of other ones. It’ll be days before they clear all the tracks and replace cars. You sure your man wants to get into midtown?”

  “Roger. Seems like the type who can handle it.”

  “Hope he’s got good hiking boots, over.”

  It cost Buck another premium for a ride close enough to the train that he could walk the rest of the way. His driver had not even been a cabbie, nor the vehicle a cab. But it might as well have been. It was just as decrepit and unsafe.

  A two-mile walk got him to the train platform at about noon, where he waited more than forty minutes with a mass of humanity, only to find himself among the last half who had to wait another half hour for the next train. The zigzag ride took two hours to get to Manhattan, and all during the trip Buck tapped at the keys on his laptop or stared out the window at the gridlock that went on for miles. He knew many of his locally based colleagues would have already filed similar reports, so his only hope of scoring with Steve Plank and having this see publication was if his were more powerfully or eloquently written. He was in such awe of the scene that he doubted he could pull it off. At the very least he was adding drama to his own memoirs. New York City was at a standstill, and the biggest surprise was that they were letting people in at all. No doubt many of these, like him, lived here and needed to get to their homes and apartments.

  The train lurched to a stop, far short of where he had been told it would reach. The garbled announcement, the best he could make out, informed passengers that this was the new last stop. Their next jog would have put them in the middle of a crane site whe
re cars were being lifted off the track. Buck calculated about a fifteen-mile walk to his office and another five to his apartment.

  Fortunately, Buck was in great shape. He put everything into his bag and shortened the strap so he could carry it close to his body without it swinging. He set off at what he guessed was a four-mile-per-hour pace, and three hours later he was hurting. He was sure he had blisters, and his neck and shoulders were tired from the bag and strap. He was sweating through his clothes, and there was no way he was going to get to his apartment before stopping in at the office.

  “Oh, God, help me,” Buck breathed, more exasperated than praying. But if there was a God, he decided, God had a sense of humor. Leaning against a brick wall in an alley in plain sight was a yellow bicycle with a cardboard sign clipped to it. It read, “Borrow this bike. Take it where you like. Leave it for someone else in need. No charge.”

  Only in New York, he thought. Nobody steals something that’s free.

  He thought about breathing a prayer of thanks, but somehow the world he was looking at didn’t show any other evidence of a benevolent Creator. He mounted the bike, realized how long it had been since he had been aboard one, and wobbled off till he found his balance. It wasn’t long before he cruised into midtown between the snarl of wreckage and wreckers. Only a few other people were traveling as efficiently as he was—couriers on bikes, two others on yellow bikes just like his, and cops on horseback.

  Security was tight at the Global Weekly building, which somehow didn’t surprise him. After identifying himself to a new desk clerk, he rode to the twenty-seventh floor, stopped in the public washroom to freshen up, and finally entered the main suites of the magazine. The receptionist immediately buzzed Steve Plank’s office, and both Steve and Marge Potter hurried out to embrace and welcome him.

  Buck Williams was hit with a strange, new emotion. He nearly wept. He realized he, along with everyone else, was enduring a hideous trauma and that he had no doubt been running on adrenaline. But somehow, getting back to familiar territory—especially with the expense and effort it had taken—made him feel as if he had come home. He was with people who cared about him. This was his family. He was really, really glad to see them, and it appeared the feeling was mutual.

  He bit his lip to keep from clouding up, and as he followed Steve and Marge down the hall past his tiny, cluttered office and into Steve’s spacious office/conference room, he asked if they had heard about Lucinda Washington.

  Marge stopped in the corridor, bringing her hands to her face. “Yes,” she managed, “and I wasn’t going to do this again. We’ve lost several. Where does the grieving start and end?”

  With that, Buck lost it. He couldn’t pretend any longer, though he was as surprised as anyone at his own sensitivity. Steve put an arm around his secretary and guided her and Buck into his office, where others from the senior staff waited.

  They cheered when they saw Buck. These people, the ones he had worked with, fought with, feuded with, irritated, and scooped, now seemed genuinely glad to see him. They could have no idea how he felt. “Boy, it’s good to be back here,” he said, then sat and buried his head in his hands. His body began to shake, and he could fight the tears no longer. He began to sob, right there in front of his colleagues and competitors.

  He tried to wipe the tears away and compose himself, but when he looked up, forcing an embarrassed smile, he noticed everyone else was emotional, too. “It’s all right, Bucky,” one said. “If this is your first cry, you’ll discover it won’t be your last. We’re all just as scared and stunned and grief stricken as you are.”

  “Yeah,” another said, “but his personal account will no doubt be more compelling.” Which made everyone laugh and cry all the more.

  Rayford talked himself into calling the Pan-Con Flight Center early in the afternoon. He learned that he was to report in for a Friday flight two days later. “Really?” he said.

  “Don’t count on actually flying it,” he was told. “Not too many flights are expected to be lifting off by then. Certainly none till late tomorrow, and maybe not even then.”

  “There’s a chance I’ll get called off before I leave home?”

  “More than a chance, but that’s your assignment for now.”

  “What’s the route?”

  “ORD to BOS to JFK.”

  “Hmm. Chicago, Boston, New York. Home when?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “Good.”

  “Why? Got a date?”

  “Not funny.”

  “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Captain. I forgot who I was talking to.”

  “You know about my family?”

  “Everybody here knows, sir. We’re sorry. We heard it from the senior flight attendant on your aborted Heathrow run. You got the word on your first officer on that flight, didn’t you?”

  “I heard something but never got any official word.”

  “What’d you hear?”

  “Suicide.”

  “Right. Awful.”

  “Can you check on something for me?”

  “If it’s in my power, Captain.”

  “My daughter is trying to get back this way from California.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “I know, but she’s on her way. Trying anyway. She’ll more than likely try to fly Pan. Can you check and see if she’s on any of the manifests coming east?”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. There are precious few, and you know none of them will be landing here.”

  “How about Milwaukee?”

  “Don’t think so.” He was tapping computer keys. “Where would she originate?”

  “Somewhere near Palo Alto.”

  “Not good.”

  “Why?”

  “Hardly anything coming out of there. Let me check.”

  Rayford could hear the man talking to himself, trying things, suggesting options. “Air California to Utah. Hey! Found her! Name Chloe with your last name?”

  “That’s her!”

  “She checked in at Palo Alto. Pan put her on a bus to some outlying strip. Flew her to Salt Lake City on Air California. First time out of the state for that plane, I’ll bet. She got on a Pan-Con plane, oh, an oldie, and they took her to, um, oh brother. Enid, Oklahoma.”

  “Enid? That’s never been on our routes.”

  “No kidding. They were overrun with Dallas’s spillover, too. Anyway, she’s flying Ozark to Springfield, Illinois.”

  “Ozark!”

  “I just work here, Cap.”

  “Well, somebody’s trying to make it work, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, the good news is, we’ve got a turboprop or two down there that can get her up into the area, but it doesn’t say where she might land. It might not even come up on this screen because they won’t know till they get close.”

  “How will I know where to pick her up?”

  “You may not. I’m sure she’ll call you when she lands. Who knows? Maybe she’ll just show up.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for what you’re going through, sir, but you can be grateful your daughter didn’t get on Pan-Con directly out of Palo Alto. The last one out of there went down last night. No survivors.”

  “And this was after the disappearances?”

  “Just last night. Totally unrelated.”

  “Wouldn’t that have been a kick in the teeth?” Rayford said.

  “Indeed.”

  CHAPTER 8

  When the other senior writers and editors drifted back to their offices, Steve Plank insisted Buck Williams go home and rest before coming back for an eight o’clock meeting that evening.

  “I’d rather get done now and go home for the night.”

  “I know,” the executive editor said, “but we’ve got a lot to do and I want you sharp.”

  Still, Buck was reluctant. “How soon can I get to London?”

  “What have you got there?”

  Buck filled Steve in on his tip about a major U.S.
financier meeting with international colleagues and introducing a rising European politico. “Oh, man, Buck,” Steve said, “we’re all over that. You mean Carpathia.”

  Buck was stunned. “I do?”

  “He was the guy Rosenzweig was so impressed with.”

  “Yeah, but you think he’s the one my informant is—”

  “Man, you have been out of touch,” Steve said. “It’s not that big a deal. The financier has to be Jonathan Stonagal, who seems to be sponsoring him. I told you Carpathia was coming to address the U.N., didn’t I?”

  “So he’s the new Romanian ambassador to the U.N.?” Buck said.

  “Hardly.”

  “What then?”

  “President of the country.”

  “Didn’t they just elect a leader, what, eighteen months ago?” Buck said, remembering Dirk’s tip that a new leader would seem out of place and time.

  “Big shake-up there,” Steve said. “Better check it out.”

  “I will.”

  “I don’t mean you. I really don’t think there’s much of a story. The guy is young and dashing and all that, charming and persuasive as I understand it. He had been a meteoric business star, making a killing when Romanian markets opened to the West years ago. But as of last week he wasn’t even in their senate yet. He was only in the lower house.”

  “The House of Deputies,” Buck said.

  “How did you know that?”

  Buck grinned. “Rosenzweig educated me.”

  “For a minute there I thought you really did know everything. That’s what you get accused of around here, you know.”

  “What a crime.”

  “But you play it with such humility.”

  “That’s me. So, Steve, why don’t you think it’s important that a guy like Carpathia comes from nowhere to unseat the president of Romania?”