by ML Banner
Randall felt sure that the imam’s finger stopped, pointing directly at him. The man’s severe eyes knew what Randall felt in his heart: that this imam was evil.
When the prosecutor’s twisted digit and critical eyes moved past him to the next accused, Randall’s mind wandered to how he got here.
After retirement from baseball as a respectable hitter with a .242 average, he felt a big spiritual hole. He was raised Southern Baptist—a family tradition that stretched several generations and included two pastors—but it all felt false to him. It was the speaking out of both sides of their mouths that got to him most: at church they’d sing glowing praises to God, and then at home, they’d spew hateful things about their fellow congregants. Yet this very manner of conduct was despised by God, when James warned, “Do not speak evil against one another, brothers.” It was the incongruent actions that rubbed away at him, causing him to first miss an occasional Sunday—always with a believable excuse—until he stopped attending altogether. He became spiritually lost.
Then a baseball friend of his talked to him about Islam. He was immediately drawn into the concept of being submissive to Allah—the Muslim name for God—as he believed obedience to the Almighty was important. But the other pillars hit him as right too, especially the daily prayer. His friend invited him to mosque, and he listened and started to read the Quran. Oh, there were passages that bothered him in their book, just as many passages in the Bible made him uncomfortable.
One day, he found that the community, the commitment, and the prayerful supplication to Allah moved him spiritually, and this led him to become a Muslim. His wife, Leticia, saw the change in him, and the other men’s wives worked on her, explaining her role in the family, which was similar to the one outlined by the Baptists. She slowly came around, but it was mostly because of the noticeable change she saw in him.
They were attending mosque on a regular basis when an Imam Ramadi visited their mosque and spoke. He told them of the coming end-times and of what they needed to do to prepare. This was a different version of the same speech he’d heard spoken from the Baptist pew before. And they, too, recognized the Second Coming of Jesus, who would appear with the Mahdi to bring changes to the whole world. The imam spoke about his mosque in Crystal Waters, a small community in northern Florida that was almost entirely Muslim, where everyone took care of each other. The charismatic imam charmed Randall and his wife instantly.
At a big dinner where both his and his wife’s families attended, one of them brought up their conversion to Islam. They had all avoided this conversation for months. But at dinner, the accumulated bile toward their faith erupted, and each family member spewed forth angry words about their actions and their newfound faith. Randall and Leticia stomped out in tears. The next day, they put their house up for sale and moved to Crystal Waters, where they made friends and became completely immersed in the community. That had been less than a year ago.
When the power went out, Randall thought their decision to move was even better. While reports—via the imam—came in daily about violence and rioting in cities, they experienced none of that. Imam Ramadi had already warned them about the coming hard times and that it was important to store up food and water for the coming days. Then those days arrived, and the community almost seemed excited about it, as if its members were chosen personally by Allah to survive this apocalypse. But there was so much more to this that he hadn’t heard.
Then yesterday, Imam Ramadi declared in his daily message at the mosque—where they received all their information about the world outside their community—that sharia law was being instituted immediately. It was necessary, he had told them, because Allah was testing their obedience. Further, there was no more America and therefore no more American law, so they had to police themselves.
A couple of his neighbors spoke about a few public dissenters and the consequences of their dissent. But he thought it was just rumor. Then, this morning, on the way to mosque, Randall and his family were shocked to find two dead men hanging by their necks in the middle of the town square. Each dead body bore a sign that said “Treasonous Infidel.”
The message was clear. Break any of the community’s laws, and your punishment would be swift and absolute.
It was like the proverbial frog, at first comfortable in the pot of warm water, totally unaware that his pot was being brought to a boil until it was too late. Only after arriving this morning, and now hearing the imam’s words, did Randall come to realize that they were the frogs and the pot was this community, and it was about ready to boil over.
There were many other signs, which they willfully ignored, but they should have seen. The Matawi were a perfect example. These “volunteers” were chosen by the imam to help teach the community what was right and wrong in sharia. At first, they were very kind and gracious, offering instruction on how a man should treat his children or how a woman should dress in public. But then there were changes, all noticeable if anyone wanted to recognize them. The pot started to simmer.
One day, last week, Leticia was walking alone from the store with her head uncovered. The hijab she had chosen that day was black and wholly unpractical on a day when the sun was particularly brutal. One of the Matawi brought it to her attention, and she said something sarcastic back to him, and the man struck her. This incensed Randall so much that he marched over to the man’s house to give a physical rebuttal. But several of the Matawi were with him then, and instead of beating this man up as Randall had intended, he left for fear of his own safety. He would take it up with the imam directly. But that never happened. And he knew now it never would. The pot was boiling.
The imam’s booming voice continued. “It has started, my friends. From the air, Allah’s armies have cast down death to the infidel armies. But it will not be seventy thousand dead. It will be seventy times seventy thousand.
“But that is just one more step in the end-times that have begun.
“The Mahdi has already been identified. Mahdi Abdul has already begun his reign, commanding his army against a corrupt country and after this the rest of the corrupt world.”
Randall backed up through the horde of men surrounding him. They ignored him and happily took a place closer to the imam in an effort to soak up more of his poison.
“I have been in touch with the Mahdi …”
Randall stopped in his tracks and peered up at the man who once again seemed to be looking directly at him.
“He has chosen our community as one of the places to host his army. And in a few short days, when that happens, all the men in this community will be called by Allah to take up arms against the infidels and become his warriors …”
At that moment, the pot boiled over.
He backed away slowly at first, his heart racing to a full panic. Then he burst from the frothing pack, leaving them snarling and lapping up the imam’s words.
Happily, he found his wife already in the back, moving away from the women, her face full of fear.
They shot knowing glances at each other. Without speaking a word, they made their way out the doors. They would collect their children and head home, where they would try to leave unnoticed.
~~~
Ramadi
“Asasah Salam.”
“Salam Asalah,” Imam Ramadi said to Fidel.
“We have word from Mahdi Abdul.” Without desecrating his imam’s robe by touching it, Fidel ushered him toward the imam’s private office, away from the crowds that wanted to thank him or simply be in his presence.
Once they were inside and the door was closed, Ramadi asked, “What happened? Why has our Mahdi been out of touch for so long?”
Fidel held his head down. “Mahdi Abdul was injured during an attack on his base, which was lost to the infidel army. However, we are told that he will survive. Several of his men survived, and they are in hiding until the third phase begins.”
Ramadi had already removed his cloak and parked himself in his desk chair, where he considered Fid
el’s report.
“Anything else?”
“Only that our warriors will be descending upon us in two days.”
“Good. And is the sign ready?”
“Yes, it was posted just before you concluded.”
“And you have the three men that will be executed tonight?”
“Yes, two Christians and a Jew.”
“How did you catch them?”
“Our security cameras in each family’s home first caught them praying and reading their holy books. The Matawi then studied their activities. They often gathered for tea and had quiet discussions. We have taped audio and video feeds of their discussions to assassinate you.”
“Excellent. Then everything is as we had planned.”
“Yes, it is, my imam.”
~~~
Randall
“So are we doing what I think we are?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said grimly. “We’ll get our kids and then grab a few things and leave.”
“But where will we go? Our home, our friends are here, no matter how bad it is.”
He looked at her to make sure she understood. She did, but still didn’t want to accept it. He didn’t either. “You know it will get much worse?”
“Yes, I do.” She looked down, filled with sorrow, and then back up to her husband. “But where will we go?”
“We’ll stay with Emily. She’s offered many times.”
“But that was just for the weekend.”
“She loves the kids and adores you. She’ll welcome us.”
“All right.” Her eyes, already wet with tears, beamed acceptance and strength. “I’ll pack a few things for our walk to Endurance.”
Chapter 9
Hasta Army Base
Reynolds
Reynolds and O’Malley fell into a plush couch in the commander’s office.
Both wheezed through their full-face respirators. Each was covered by a fully encapsulated front-entry vapor-protective suit. They were Level A suits, impervious to sarin gas, but they were designed to be worn for twenty minutes. The men had had them on for over an hour.
Their tanks were still pumping air, but they were breathing high concentrations of CO2 back into the suits.
Normal oxygen concentrations at sea level were just under 21 percent. The National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health defined an “oxygen-deficient atmosphere” at below 20 percent. Per NIOSH studies, at 16 percent inside a suit, users could expect some impairment in judgment and coordination. At 14 percent, fatigue and emotional distress. At 12 percent, nausea and vomiting and a significant decrease in judgment and respiration. At below 10 percent, unconsciousness. Their readings had just dropped below 10 percent.
For a while, their chests rose and fell in quick succession, adding an odd crinkly sound to their raspy but inadequate attempts to pull oxygen into their lungs.
Their faces and bodies were drenched with perspiration. The insides of their suits were a tropical forest during rainy season. They gazed out through their faceplates, but a mist hung on everything inside, not unlike the fatigue fogging their minds,
“Is that all of them?” O’Malley exhaled.
Reynolds was just then mentally going through the base map, struggling to think of any other rooms in any of the buildings they might have missed clearing out yet. “I think so,” he huffed.
“I count … forty-one dead … one most likely dead … So that’s forty-two.” O’Malley paused a long time, taking in a rapid series of breaths. “Only three are living; that means we’re missing two.”
“Correct.” Reynolds tried drawing a long breath, but it was no use; there was too much CO2 inside. He jumped slightly as O’Malley surprised him by jamming a needle into his arm. “What the hell?”
“We had five doses left … Knew you wouldn’t agree, so made decision … Need you to survive past today.”
Reynolds did his best to study the private first class through his faceplate. As if inside a steam bath, he was invisible in the haze of his suit. But he didn’t need to see him to know he was suffering from hypoxia. They both were.
A rivulet of perspiration ran down, momentarily revealing a small sliver of a view before it was immediately consumed by the condensation.
He looks pale, Reynolds thought.
“You’re going to make a great officer someday.”
Reynolds unzipped the front of his suit and the office air, with whatever sarin it contained, rushed in.
~~~
Jonah
“Where are my hazmat suits?” Jonah blared out the window of his ’58 Corvette to the truck parked in the opposite direction alongside of him.
The anxious man in the truck’s driver’s seat glanced at Jonah and then at the ground just outside the window. The man hesitated, his thick neck straining, the blood vessels bulging across his head. It was obvious to Jonah that his man was using all of his limited mental powers to decide his next action before he finally rolled down the window. “Sorry, boss. Whadya say?”
“You buffoon. We’re safe here, that’s why we parked a couple of blocks away from the base. You don’t see any dead animals or people here, do you?” Jonah was getting impatient waiting for his trucks to arrive. “Give me your damned radio. My battery conked out.”
The Dwayne Johnson look-alike again nervously glared down at the asphalt as if to tell it not to get any sarin on him, and then gingerly stepped out, on tiptoes, onto the blacktop. Like an NFL center doing a ballerina act and handing off a football to his QB before being pummeled, he thrust his own handset through the Corvette’s window and leaped back into his truck.
Jonah wanted to laugh at how silly his man looked, but he had more important matters to attend to. If they were going to grab what they could from the Army base, they needed to move quickly, before anyone else did. “Where are my damned hazmat suits?” he hollered into the radio.
The static background sounds were broken by the clear sound of an open microphone. There were two voices whispering something and gears being ground, followed by, “We’re pulling up right behind you, boss.”
Jonah’s car was pointed toward the gate, so he immediately glanced at his rearview mirror and saw his truck appear from the next block.
Jonah was already out of his seat before the truck stopped, slamming shut the Vette’s door. He momentarily paused and hovered, loving the sound it made. “Great engineering,” he’d tell anyone who listened.
He marched over to the big yellow box truck. One of the perks of owning a franchise was that he had, at any one time, practically an unlimited number of box trucks. Of course, that had been before the EMPs fried most of them. He was thankful that several of his trucks had been parked inside one of his metal warehouses, getting serviced, before the EMPs hit. They survived and were probably among the few such working vehicles in all of Florida.
The truck’s two occupants scrambled out of their front seats and out the cab’s doors, racing to the back in an attempt to arrive before their boss did. One quickly released the big roll-down door to reveal several blue suits hanging on hooks from a tall suit rack inside.
“Did you bring every suit I own? There are only four of us,” he bellowed.
“Sorry, boss. But you said Peter and the others would be joining you. I thought it was better to bring more than we needed.”
Walters was right, of course. He forgot for a moment that Peter would be arriving with his men and that woman who had sliced his boy up pretty badly. He reflexively looked at his wrist, where his digital watch would have been, wondering where they were.
He gazed at the dozen or so hanging hazmat suits. He must have had fifty of these things at the warehouse. One of the businesses that rented from him was going to take advantage of the Ebola crisis that had swept the country some years back. The owner of the business had spent fifty thousand dollars on the Lakeland Interceptor Suits alone, which were considered top of the line. The next month, the owner welshed on his rent and Jonah took posses
sion of all the tenant’s assets, including the suits. At the time, Jonah laughed at his luck, since the rent was only a couple of thousand dollars. However, when he tried to sell them on eBay, he couldn’t get any bids higher than fifty dollars each, so he held on to them, figuring that one day they might come in handy.
Today was that day.
He hopped up on the truck’s gate. Walters had already prepared a suit for him to hop into.
It took about ten minutes to get the three men into their suits with masks on and comfortable. With gloves and boots secure, the only thing left was to zip up the front; they were ready to go.
Jonah jumped out of the truck, but was already feeling hot in the thing and was glad the cross zipper was opened for ventilation. It only weighed nine pounds, but with the oxygen tank, it took a little getting used to.
Just then, Peter pulled up in his pickup with another box truck following. He could see the young woman, a kid, and an old man in the truck bed. Two of his own men, holding rifles, were there, guarding them.
Jonah trudged over to Peter’s truck. Her punishment would be based on what she said next.
~~~
Jasper
Jasper had been in a panic.
He had found himself doubled over in the middle of the T of a residential intersection, the cross street leading to the base’s gate, when Peter’s truck—with his neighbors in back—pulled onto the street. He glanced to his side and was shocked to see a box truck parked near Jonah’s Vette, its gate opened, pointed in his direction, with several men busy inside.
He had been trying to catch his breath after having run four blocks from where he had beached his boat. Because the trucks had been coming fast, and fearing Jonah and his men might see him, Jasper had dashed into a backyard.
He had tried to hop over a hedge, but its branches conspired against him, tripping him up and causing him to fall face-first onto an overgrown lawn. Righting himself quickly, he passed through another yard before he was finally able to stop and take a breath.