by Mark Kraver
“Make it so,” the general concluded, borrowing the phrase from one of his favorite TV shows, Star Trek: Next Generation. If anyone there made the connection, they kept it to themselves.
Flash, puff. Another baby.
“Lieutenant, what the hell is that thing?” the general asked.
“Sir looks like a flying naked baby to me, sir.”
The general rolled his eyes.
“Excuse me, general, but what are you going to do to that cloud?” Goodheart asked.
“You mean can we catch the falling knife? You’re to the point. I like that,” the general said, looking at Solomon. “We have something in store that we hope will expose it for what it really is.”
“And what is that, general?”
“A hoax, Agent Goodheart. An alien hoax.”
Chapter 40
I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.
Alexander the Great, 356-323 BC, Earth
Library of Souls
Texas City
Saeed saw the New York City skyline and harbor on radar as his cargo ship steamed full speed ahead. His plan was simple. Continue into New York Harbor, pull close to a group of buildings, and open fire. If they were lucky, they could even down an airplane or helicopter with surface-to-air missiles. No one would be able to stop them in time. Once they had used up all their munitions, they would all pray to Allah and then blow up the ship, including everything around it, straight to hell or in his case, heaven. Forget about the 1947 Texas City explosion. This would look like Hiroshima.
Saeed was increasingly interested in the news broadcasts about the “Cloud of Christ” approaching New York City. The streets, especially those close to the harbor, would be unusually crowded with Christian soul seekers and other infidels, he thought, tuning into the BBC to catch up on world events:
“The big apple has come to a complete standstill as the eagerly anticipated arrival of the ‘Cloud of Christ’ comes nearer. An estimated two million people have made their way into the lower east side of Manhattan and Brooklyn to witness the biggest show on Earth…”
“Allah is casting our nets into a magnificent school of fish, Yusef,” Saeed said to his nephew. They were standing side by side on the deck, gazing over the calm Atlantic coastline.
“Maybe we will be able to see His cloud,” Yusef said.
“What do you mean?”
“The other brothers hope to see the cloud, too.”
“What are they saying?” Saeed asked.
“Nothing. They are saying nothing,” Yusef cowered.
“Yusef, I am not mad at you. You are my eyes and ears on this voyage. I need you. Tell me what the others say about this cloud.”
Yusef hesitated. Saeed had used him to control the other jihadists as doubt and frustration set in on the long voyage. Thinking about one’s death for an extended period of time is not the usual recipe for successful martyrdom, and many of the volunteers were having second thoughts. Saeed had used Yusef to worm-out dissenters, so he could instill the fear of Allah’s wrath in their weak minds by any means possible. This had alienated Yusef from the rest of the group, isolating him from their camaraderie.
“It is hard to know. They do not trust me,” Yusef complained.
“Nonsense. Everyone likes you. What is there not to like?”
They both knew the answer to that, but they would not speak of it. It was a game of words that always ended with Yusef telling on the others and Saeed cracking down on them. But now that they were so close to the end of their journey, Yusef thought there wouldn’t be time for Saeed to investigate the others.
“The others want to see the cloud of the prophet Jesus. They feel coming to America at this time is not a coincidence. Maybe Allah sent the cloud to stop us. Maybe we—”
“Maybe there are too many maybes,” Saeed growled. “Maybe they are weak and not worthy of heaven. Maybe we need to show everyone that this cloud is a trick, a stunt. They are probably using it to sell something, like a movie preview or a brand of soft drink. Maybe we should expose it? Maybe Allah sent us here to show the world what should be done to infidels?”
Saeed pulled from his belt a walkie-talkie and announced over the ship-wide intercom, “To your stations, this is not a drill. Allah is great. Allah be praised. It is time to teach the American infidels where they lie in the kingdom of hell. Allah is great.”
As Saeed watched the blood run out of Yusef’s face, he made up his mind to intercept this “Cloud of Christ” and destroy it. One stone, two birds, he thought. “This is a magnificent gift from Allah. Allah is great.”
Chapter 41
All men are born with a nose and fingers, but no one is born with a knowledge of God.
Voltaire, 1694-1778, Earth
Library of Souls
Miracle
The cry of a hungry baby woke Conrad from a sound sleep. They’d spent the rest of the night and most of the morning at Holy Rosary Catholic Church watching the cloud’s progress. He sat up and listened to the TV news channel. They were just finishing a pre-recorded segment about the military shining a blinding beam of intense light on the clouded aberration; the light had reflected over the crowded Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, area in the form of a spectacular glowing cross. The segment ended, and a reporter continued the newscast with a live coverage:
“We now go to Asbury Park Beach, New Jersey, where the countdown to Christ is in full swing, and our very own Jennifer Watson has been camped out for most of the night with the crowds for this special event. Jennifer?”
“Thank you, Lois. We’re here on Asbury Park Beach with an estimated—well, a lot of people, as you can see in the background. More and more people are pushing onto beaches up the Eastern Seaboard in the hopes of glimpsing what has been dubbed the ‘Holy Cloud of Christ,’ a reference to the Book of Revelations. And I quote, ‘Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him. And all kindred of the Earth shall wail because of him. Even so, Amen.’ Everyone is so excited, and hopes this is a clue as to what, if anything, will happen once the cloud reaches the United Nations in New York City later this afternoon—if that is indeed its destination.”
Several beach goers pushed into the camera set, jostling the reporter and disrupting her makeshift tent studio. She rearranged her gaping sweater and ran a hand through her dark hair before the camera cut back to Lois at the station.
“Wild party, Jennifer? It looks like we’re experiencing technical difficulties. We’ll be back with Jennifer in a few moments. If this is Jesus Christ returning for Judgement Day, he’s caught a lot of people off guard. Right now, we have Rabbi Shlomo Goldman of Asbury Park’s Temple Beth Shalom. Rabbi, thank you for coming. Do you think this is the Jewish Messiah?”
Lois was facing a small-framed man with a full beard, curled sideburns and a decorative yarmulke. The rabbi nodded and responded.
“Lois, you are welcome. According to the teachings of the Torah, you would not have to ask if this was the Mashiach.”
“Why is that?”
“In the sacred teachings, the Mashiach will bring Heaven to Earth.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“The coming of the Mashiach will bring the immediate cessation of all wars on Earth; it will end famine and pestilence. Everyone will forget their prejudices and live in peace and harmony forever.”
“The Torah specifically says that these effects will be immediate?”
“Correct.”
“Just poof, and no more war?”
“Correct.”
“Since this has not yet taken place, you are saying this cannot be the Mashiach. Isn’t there some kind of wiggle room?”
“After three thousand years of prophecy, we may be seeing the Mashiach, I’ll grant you that. Time will tell.”
“But you’re not convinced.”
“Correct.”
“Thank you, Rabbi Shlomo Goldman of Temple Beth S
halom, for visiting at such an early hour.”
“You are welcome.”
Conrad had a full bladder, and his right arm was getting its feeling back from being smashed on the rock-hard pew. More acute was the discomfort in his belly. He couldn’t tell if it was gas from the soda pop/candy bar/carbohydrate bombshell bursting in his gut or cancer. He sat up straighter, looked around the sanctuary, heard prayers, and smelt evergreen. A welcome change from the sickening odor of petrochemicals and dead fish that challenged the nostrils of anybody outdoors.
Freckles lay beside him, asleep on his bag. It dawned on him that he didn’t even know her name. He was good at that. He could go years being friendly to someone, even next-door neighbors, without knowing their names. He once dated a girl for two weeks and never knew her last name.
He certainly wasn’t going to wake Freckles up to ask her name, since he intended on leaving her here in the safety of the church’s sanctuary. He thought about what he needed inside his bag and weighed each item over should he waking her up or making a clean break. The only thing of value inside his bag that he could think of was an autographed signed copy of Arthur C. Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey. He had no idea why he brought it with him, and now he regretted bringing it in the first place. He wondered for a few seconds what Arthur would think about all that had happened in the last week.
Boy, did he need to pee. He also wanted to donate to the church for the few hours’ sleep and the use of the television. Leaving his bag behind, he tiptoed over the bodies of wayward travelers strewn over and under the pews to either side of him, he found the restroom. Relieved, he dropped the last change in his pocket into the collection plate and escaped out the front door. He thought, isn’t that like a church. He wondered what they were going to do with all the money if this was actually the end of the world.
He was down to his last twenty-dollar bill in cash and a handful of maxed-out credit cards. Conrad laughed, remembering the road to hell was paved on both sides with good intentions. How am I getting to the UN from this God forsaken place, he thought?
He looked at his dead watch and frowned. Maybe he could sell the damn thing? He stretched his tired muscles, felt the pain in his side shoot up into his jawbone. It took a few seconds to shake it off, before he started walking towards the beach. It was already late morning he guessed by the inclination of the sun. The beach was easy to find now. All he had to do was walk with the tide of people weaving in and out of all the tightly packed abandoned vehicles. The results of the overnight rioting and looting was now very apparent. Trash, broken windows, and burnt out cars everywhere. Nothing like a good ole Judgement Day to bring out the devil in you, he thought.
The smell was worse with every step he took. Man, if this was California, the closer to the water, the bigger and more expensive the houses would be. He’d already be passing the million-dollar mark by now, and the beach was still five blocks away.
Everywhere he looked, he saw parked cars and people singing and dancing in the streets. Not the rioters he expected. Those guys were home sleeping off Judgement Day like another bad hangover. There were so many people he wasn’t sure he would make it to the shoreline, let alone Manhattan. He had woken in time to hear a battery-powered megaphone announcer tell everyone in earshot the cloud was still following the coast.
“It has past Asbury Park and Long Branch,” the announcer said, and the crowds roared with “Praise the Lords” and “Hallelujahs.”
Conrad had no idea where those places were. “Excuse me, ma’am, but can you show me on your map where those towns are?” he politely asked an elderly woman with a large white hat, bright red lipstick, and large bling sunglasses.
“Right here.” The woman pointed to a well-used map of New Jersey. “I’m betting it will turn here, cause if it shoots across here, we’re all screwed,” she said, as if she had already bet money on what route the cloud would take to Manhattan. “We should know any minute. Isn’t this exciting?”
“Yes, thank you ma’am,” he said. As she walked on, Conrad began coughing hard into the crook of his elbow. When the small fit passed he saw blood on his sleeve. “Oh, man,” he said quietly. He wiped his mouth and swallowed hard.
Before he could even think about the state of his health, Conrad found himself being swept down the road by a large rowdy crowd in the general direction of the smell. The mass of people seemed to have one purpose in mind—get to the beach.
Leading one particularly determined group of religious bullies was a thirty-something preacher-man with a six-foot cross that he didn’t hesitate to use to open a path for his group of twelve or so followers, including . . . Freckles? Conrad felt a strange surge of annoyance and relief at the sight of her. He braced himself for whatever she might say or do, while, in the subtlest of ways, he was pleased to see a familiar face amid all this madness.
“Hey, Vince,” she yelled, happy to see him. “I saw these guys heading my way, so I tagged along. Got your bag.”
Conrad smiled and fell into step with Freckles, riding the wake of the cross-wielding thugs right to the edge of the fish-kill of Raritan Bay.
“Ooooh, what is this?” she complained. She stopped and leaned on him to examine the sole of her shoe.
“Looks like tar,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’ll probably cause cancer or something like that. Kind of goes with the smell, don’t you think?”
The megaphone announced the news that no one wanted to hear. “The cloud is jumping to the Brooklyn side of the narrows to New York. The Cloud of Christ is now over Gateway National and expected to cross from there to Brooklyn to Manhattan.”
“What does that mean?” Freckles asked.
“It means you won’t be seeing your savior, and I won’t be seeing any little green men.”
Conrad wanted to add that it meant he wouldn’t be seeing his Kit, but that would complicate the situation. Besides Freckles doesn’t know Kit’s inside that cloud. It occurred to him that he’d never even mentioned his own agenda for chasing the cloud. For the briefest of moments, he considered telling Freckles, but as he watched her face suddenly light up with urgent passion he was instantly relieved he had said nothing.
“I don’t believe it! Let’s not let this happen,” she yelled at the top of her lungs, attracting the attention of the young, cross-toting preacher. “Let’s pray as hard as we can and turn Christ back to us.”
“You heard Christ’s child. Pray with us,” the young pastor commanded the crowd, holding his impressive cross over his head. “Pray as hard as you’ve ever prayed in your lives. Pray and be judged, for if Christ can feel the love in your hearts, he will surely come.”
“Call out to Christ, everyone,” she yelled, looking at Conrad. “Call out to Christ,” she yelled, trying to rally the crowd.
Conrad was three thousand miles from home with tar-caked shoes, on a beautiful—albeit smelly—New York shoreline, and he could not believe how badly he had messed up his life. This was the last place he thought he’d be when he deplaned in Newark.
“Call out to Christ,” she yelled until it rang in his head.
“Call out to Christ. Call out to Christ. Call out to Christ,” turned into “Call Christ, Call Christ, Call Christ,” and then, “Christ, Christ, Christ,” as more people began to chant.
The crowd shifted, pushing Conrad into Freckles and almost knocking his cellphone off his belt into the gooey mud. “Oh, my God,” he said aloud, remembering his cellphone and catching Freckle’s attention. “I should try calling Kit again,” he said. He snapped the phone out of its holster and dared to see if it was still charged. To his surprise, it was. He selected her number, pressed the call button and cupped his hand over his ear and phone to listen as best he could inside the jubilant crowd call out to Christ.
“Hello?” answered Logan.
“Kit? This is Vince. Are you still in that damn cloud?” Conrad asked, holding his breath.
“Yeah. Vince. Where are you?” she asked, yawning.
“What’s wrong? You sound groggy.”
“I just woke up,” she said.
“Okay, cool. I’m about twenty or thirty miles from you. Sorry, heavy phone traffic. I can’t make it to the UN. What a mess.”
“You’re where?” she asked, again.
“It’s called Arrochar—on Staten Island, on the beach. Wait, no. This beach has tar instead of sand. It’s a quaint, smelly little place. Next to a chemical plant or rotten-fish factory, I think. What’s it like floating in that cloud with—”
“Who are you talking to, Vince?” Freckles asked, disappointed he wasn’t chanting with the rest of them. Conrad turned his back to her.
“What’s happening? Who is with you?” Logan’s voice seemed to perk up at the sound of another woman calling his name.
“Oh, she’s nobody. Just another crazy waiting to see your cloud. I don’t even know her name. What’s it like, in the cloud?”
“I don’t know,” Logan answered. “It’s quiet. Warm. I feel safe. It’s weightless. Must be some kind of antigravity bubble? I haven’t asked him about it.”
“Him?”
“Yeah, his name is Yahweh, and he’s from a place—or people—called the Elohim—but that doesn’t matter right now. Anyway, I can barely hear you.”
“What does he look like?” he asked.
“Check it out for yourself.”
“What?”
Logan didn’t respond, and Conrad realized the crowd’s chants had faded. A lower, excited mumbling had begun spreading over the beach.
“Oh my God,” someone yelled. “The Cloud of Christ! Look!”
Out over the bay, it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.
Freckles whooped, hollered, and raised both hands over her head in victory. “It’s a miracle,” she yelled. “I’ve never prayed so hard in my entire life. I knew it would work.”