by Mark Romang
“I am Jacob Akkerman. And I come in peace. I only wish to talk with you for a short time. I have good news to tell you.”
“We could use some good news. Speak your peace.”
Akkerman could just make out their forms in the murk. But the dark forest couldn’t hide their poor physical condition. Being a Jew, Akkerman had viewed plenty of pictures of Holocaust prisoners. These homeless people looked just as gaunt.
Akkerman guessed there were about twenty of them. The homeless people were young and old. Females slightly outnumbered the males. They all looked tired and hungry, beaten down and defeated, clearly on their last legs, but eager for something good to happen to them. “How many of you are chipped?” Akkerman asked.
The same woman answered for the group again. Apparently she was the leader. “None of us are chipped,” she said proudly. “This is why we live like we do.”
“Good. Then it is not too late for you.” Akkerman paused to gather his thoughts. He had to choose just the right words to penetrate their defenses. Akkerman knew these people were wary out of necessity. They were like wild animals in a way, the prey of the UWC. And they trusted no one.
“It’s a hard life you have chosen to live. And I admire your courage. It’s not easy to live this way. Other people look down on you, like you are second class and expendable. But there is one who thinks you are all precious. He loves you with a crazy love, an endless love that cannot be measured.”
“Who is it you speak of? And explain this crazy love,” someone other than the leader asked.
“Almighty God thinks you’re precious. And not just you, but everyone. He thinks of every person ever born as a priceless creation. And God loves us all so much he sent his son Jesus to Earth over two-thousand years ago to die on the cross and ransom us from our sins. This is the crazy love I speak of,” Akkerman said.
“That doesn’t sound like crazy love to me. It sounds like a crazy kind of hate to do that to your son,” the leader said.
Akkerman nodded. “It would be crazy hatred if God would have allowed his son to stay buried in the tomb, but he didn’t. He brought Jesus back to life. The Bible states in Romans 10:9, if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.”
A young woman took a half-step forward. “If God loved us so much he would show us mercy. He must hate us to send all these plagues and allow us to suffer so much.”
Akkerman felt pity for the woman. He could hear her stomach grumbling. “I understand how you would come to this conclusion. But you are wrong. God longs to have a relationship with you. It is what he desires the most, and he’s sending these judgements as a tool to turn people back to him.”
A frail man that looked almost skeletal spoke up. “You sound like a preacher? If you are, how come you’re still here? Why didn’t you vanish with the others?”
“I am a Messianic Jew. My lineage can be traced all the way back to the tribe of Levi. But a few years ago I wasn’t a Christian, and I was left behind just like you. But God opened my eyes to the truth. And then he anointed me to be part of a group of 144,000 Jewish men. We are anointed to be special witnesses, to spread the Good News to all corners of the world that Jesus died for our sins and paid our death penalty, and that he conquered the grave and sits at the right hand of God, fully alive.”
The leader spoke up again. “I’ve never had much use for religion. It’s all just a bunch of commands that are impossible to keep.”
“I used to feel the same way, friend,” Akkerman said gently. “But every person on this planet faces a decision to accept God’s forgiveness or reject it. It is a monumental decision that carries with it eternal consequences. I urge you to choose wisely.”
A branch snapped behind Akkerman. He turned around and saw the eleven Jewish men he lived and traveled with. His friend Benjamin looked alarmed. “Jacob, UWC policemen are searching the tents. We must leave,” he said breathlessly.
Akkerman turned to Mary. “Do you know of a better hiding place than this small stand of trees?”
“I do, Jacob. Follow me everyone,” Mary said in a low, urgent voice just before scurrying deeper into the forest.
None of them protested. They all followed Mary.
****
The line of trees stretched for nearly two hundred yards. Without using any handheld illumination, Mary guided them through nearly the entire length of the suburban forest. When the trees and undergrowth petered out, Akkerman and his Jewish companions and Mary and her homeless friends found themselves crouching at the edge of an industrial park.
There were several warehouses in the complex. Most of them were empty and shuttered. But not all. Security lights blazed on one warehouse, and nearby light poles shone brightly and turned the night into day.
Akkerman glanced behind him. Back at Tent City, UWC policeman were shining spotlights into tents. The Gestapo-like organization never rested from harassing unmarked people. And they became almost rabid when hunting down Jews and Christians.
It doesn’t have to be this way, Akkerman thought sadly. But then he reconsidered his reflexive thought. Yes, it does have to be this way. Because the Bible predicted this type of persecution would come.
Mary again motioned them to follow. She ran low to the ground, hugging the shadows and keeping to the edges of an access road. Akkerman noted the majority of Mary’s homeless friends wore black clothing and dark shoes. They were used to being hunted and wore clothing to help them stay invisible.
Mary led them across a greenway that bordered the industrial park. For a dozen seconds they were out in the open and vulnerable to discovery. But then the greenway sloped into a large ditch. They entered single file into a storm headwall, stooping to enter the three-foot hole. Once inside the storm tunnel, Akkerman saw a small beam of light blink on and poke a hole in the inky darkness. Mary had produced a flashlight and pointed it down the tunnel.
Mary’s flashlight played over the walls and floor. They all stood up straight when they realized the concrete tunnel had a seven-foot high ceiling.
Better yet, the tunnel appeared bone dry.
Akkerman couldn’t remember the last time rain had fallen on the city. Seattle was quickly becoming as dry as Las Vegas, and minus a sudden rain squall they were in little danger of runoff pouring into the tunnel and washing them away.
For what seemed like an hour, but was probably more like twenty minutes, Akkerman and his Jewish companions and the homeless residents of Tent City trailed behind Mary as she led them deeper and deeper into the storm tunnels under Seattle. Several times they changed directions and turned down intersecting tunnels. Akkerman quickly realized there were miles and miles of these concrete tunnels. It would be so easy to get lost in this subterranean labyrinth.
No one said anything as they traveled. The lurking UWC threat clamped their jaws shut and stifled their tongues. Only the sounds of feet padding on the concrete floor and an occasional muffled cough broke up the silence.
Suddenly Mary stopped. The tunnel had widened into an area as big as a living room. Akkerman heard Mary talking with someone. A moment later Mary said, “We should be safe at this spot. The tunnel dwellers here are friendly and welcome our company.”
Akkerman heard matches striking against the walls. Candles flared to life. And then he saw them. Akkerman counted twelve people; three small families of four if he were to guess. They all had vacant eyes and shriveled limbs. They all looked malnourished with only days to live. They sat on or lounged on filthy sleeping bags.
Some of them smiled at Akkerman. Others nodded their heads weakly. Others just gave him blank stares.
These people can’t possibly be chipped. No one would live like this if they didn’t have to, Akkerman thought. Besides food and water, these people look like they could use some good news. And I know just what to tell them.
Akkerman didn’t waste any time. He did what he did best. He started preaching.
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nbsp; Chapter 11
Monroe Correctional Center
Later that afternoon
His chest and arms feeling as if they might burst from exertion, Nathan Banks lay unmoving on the concrete floor in his cell. He rested from performing yet another set of thirty pushups. He typically cranked out 500 pushups and 500 sit-ups each day. Some days he performed more, and some days a little less.
He hated the exercises, but didn’t have anything better to do to pass his endless time. The exercises also kept his blood flowing and made him feel stronger. Performing pushups and sit-ups in a prison cell was definitely cliché. But he felt like he was somehow improving his situation when he performed them.
If nothing else his body benefited from the exercises.
So he kept doing them. Over and over.
As Banks rested between sets, he listened for his cell door to unlock. It’s about time for them to let me out of my cage, he thought with a grin. He didn’t have any way to track the time, a blessing for sure. But instinctively he could come pretty darn close to predicting the hour.
He did have a way of keeping track of the date, however. Every day when the correctional officers came and led him from his cell to the showers he passed by a digital clock on a corridor wall. The clock stated the date. Banks figured he’d been incarcerated for three years and five months, give or take a few days.
But it seemed more like several lifetimes.
A lifespan that would never end.
And the worst part: he would never make parole.
Banks was once a talented software engineer, so talented the UWC ordered him to fix a glitch in the navigational program for Henrik Skymolt’s tracking drones. But instead of fixing the glitch, he infected the programming code with a killer virus. And the drones fell from the sky.
He was surprised they still kept him around here at the prison. By rights he should’ve been executed long ago. Every day they brought in more prisoners, mostly Christians and rebels who wouldn’t take Skymolt’s chip. And none of the prisoners ever stayed long. They were executed within a week’s time.
To be honest, sometimes he wished he could be executed. He knew his soul would go straight to Heaven the moment his life ended. It was a beautiful thought that bolstered his resolve and lifted his spirits. Banks kept telling himself that he didn’t have much longer to suffer. The Tribulation was just about ready to reach the seven-year mark.
And when the Tribulation ends, Jesus his King, the Savior of the world would return to Earth and set up his Kingdom. These cell doors are going to fly open on that day, Banks reasoned.
He suddenly cocked his head. He thought he heard footsteps approaching his door and someone talking. Living in the dark had heightened his hearing. He sometimes thought he could hear like a dog.
In this case he heard Kiefer Bixby. Kiefer was a poison mean correctional officer, hands down the worst of a bad bunch. He gave Banks a hard time all the time. Lord, please give me grace to deal with Kiefer. I’m so tired of him.
Banks climbed to his feet and faced the door. He heard a formidable lock extract in his cell door. He held a hand up to his face to help shield his eyes against the harsh light sure to come. Throughout the day he yearned for the thirty-minute break from his dark cell. The short rest from the blackness was pivotal in keeping him sane. But sometimes the light could be his enemy. It took time for his eyes to acclimate back to a lit setting. It didn’t just happen at once.
The cell door swung open. “Banks! You are a worthless jailbird! Stop hiding in the dark! It’s time for you to wash your scrawny carcass,” Kiefer bellowed. The CO shined a powerful LED flashlight into Banks’ eyes.
Banks turned his head to avoid the glare. Kiefer always shined the light into his eyes. It was just part of his shtick, a routine Banks didn’t find amusing.
“Holy Cow, it stinks in here!”
“My bucket needs emptying,” Banks said calmly. He stepped toward the door, eager for his freedom. “I’d be happy to empty it for you, Kiefer. I know you have a weak stomach.” A momentary scene played out in Banks’ head. In the scene he lifted up his bucket filled with urine and excrement and poured it over Kiefer’s head.
“It is not protocol for prisoners to empty their buckets. I’ll get someone else to do it.”
“Suit yourself, I was just trying to be helpful.” Banks began his daily walk down the corridor. Kiefer shadowed him from close behind. Banks traveled fast. The quicker he got to the shower the more time he had to eat. His thirty minutes always raced by.
“Slow down, Banks. What’s your big hurry?” Kiefer growled.
“I’m hungry. That slop you gave me yesterday didn’t stick with me.”
“I’ll talk to the server and get your quota increased by a few more crumbs,” Kiefer said, punctuating his statement with an evil-sounding belly laugh.
“That’s very kind of you, Kiefer. I appreciate it.” A sharp blow to the back of his head caused Banks to stagger forward.
“Don’t patronize me, Banks! Just keep your mouth shut. The tone of your voice is always pleasant, but your words have double meanings.”
His head stinging, Banks regained his balance and kept moving. He refrained from talking and saying anything that might draw Kiefer Bixby’s hair-trigger ire and heavy fists. Banks guessed the burly correctional officer outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He could easily pummel me to death.
Banks’ eyes had adjusted well to the fluorescent lighting. Only faint blurriness remained. He scrunched his eyes shut momentarily and then opened them wide to improve clarity. He passed by the digital clock on the wall and noted the date, memorizing it as he always did.
An intersecting corridor appeared and Banks turned down it. He and Kiefer passed by a few cell doors—more solitary confinement cells. Banks often wondered if these segregated prisoners had lights inside their tiny cells, or if they were like him and huddled in darkness.
Behind one door a prisoner screamed out obscenities. But just a couple of cell doors down Banks heard another prisoner singing Amazing Grace. The prisoner sang off-key, but Banks didn’t mind. He never was one to critique. His father had been critical, and Banks swore he would never act the same way. Criticism sometimes fosters improvements, but taken to the extreme it becomes like a wrecking ball and tears at emotions, crushing self-esteem.
So he tried to be positive as much as he could. Perhaps this is one reason why three years of solitary confinement hadn’t broken his spirit. He’d always been a survivor, was wired to overcome. It came natural to him.
Up ahead, Banks saw the tall, blonde-haired guard that acted reasonable to him. The tall guard stood by the arched entrance to the shower room. Kiefer followed Banks through the archway and into a men’s restroom that also had a changing area and several leaky showerheads situated five feet apart in an adjoining area. Banks wrinkled his nose. The pungent room smelled like a bad combination of musty towels, sweaty sneakers, bleach and urine.
Banks kicked off his slipper-like shoes and peeled off his orange jumpsuit. He folded up the eyesore jumpsuit and placed it on a wooden bench. With Kiefer keeping a close eye on him, he took off his underwear and entered the shower area.
“Make it quick, Banks. And don’t give any grief to Jimmy. He will be taking you to lunch from here,” Kiefer called out and left the room.
Jimmy, huh? I always wondered what his name was, Banks thought as he approached the showerhead he always used. He thought this particular showerhead provided the hottest spray. Water dripped from the other showerheads into a puddle that funneled into a single drain. As Banks understood it, the water from the showers was collected and treated, and then reused. He’d overheard guards talking about how scarce potable water was all over the world. The guards said all the world’s oceans and seas, lakes and rivers, and even streams and springs were contaminated with blood.
Banks twisted the shower handle to the left and water pulsed out. The water was icy, but he didn’t have time to wait until it grew hot. H
e was only allowed two minutes’ worth of water. He stepped into the icy blast and began to soap up. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the water as it gradually grew warmer and rinsed him off.
But then the water abruptly stopped. Irritated by the interruption, Banks opened his eyes. He gasped.
The tall, blonde-haired guard stood right next to him. The guard had his hand on the shower handle. He looked down at Banks intently, his eyes an intense shade of blue. “Nathan, your prayers have been heard. Tomorrow at this time, I will help you escape this prison so you can witness Jesus return to Earth.”
Banks struggled to find his voice. When he finally found it he sputtered, “How…how do you know…I’ve been praying for this?”
The guard’s blonde hair seemed to glow all of a sudden. “God has sent me to assist you, Nathan. Tomorrow when you enter this room, take off your jumpsuit, but do not take a shower. I will give you a fresh set of clothes, and then I will escort you to freedom.”
Banks felt his heart thunder. The tall man spoke eloquently. But he had a strange accent, like nothing Banks had ever heard before. He couldn’t place it. “You aren’t really a prison guard, are you? And your name isn’t Jimmy, is it?”
The guard shook his head.
“What do I call you?”
“Call me Friend.”
“No one has ever escaped this prison. Prisoners only leave when they’re about to be executed.”
“This won’t be the first time I have sprung someone from captivity. Long ago I once helped Peter escape from a Jerusalem prison. There were sixteen guards surrounding Peter at all times during his incarceration. And Peter wore chains on his hands and feet, the chains attached to a guard on either side of him. And yet not one of the sixteen guards noticed Peter leave his cell.”
Banks swallowed thickly. He mustered up all the bravery he possessed and nodded. “I’ll be ready, Friend. Whatever you ask, I will do.”
Chapter 12