American Omens

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by Travis Thrasher


  He grabbed a paperback that was held together by packing tape. The poem he found inside written by Siler Wright seemed fitting. It was called “Darkness Sleeps.”

  Does the darkness sleep

  and shiver

  next to the light?

  Cloaked in covers

  and smothered

  and waking at dawn

  only to tempt

  the light to come over again.

  The darkness remains

  a shadow to her steps

  who can’t escape even if she runs.

  He had never been a big fan of poetry simply because he had loved prose so much more, and he understood its confines. Poems were mysterious and sometimes unapproachable, yet Will had gradually learned to embrace them. The poet Wright wrote words like this that spoke to him. Especially on a day like today.

  Darkness waits in the shadows until it strangles you from behind.

  The darkness could apply to the world at large, to the violence and the anger that began in homes and offices and then took to the streets. Or it could describe his bookstore and how its flickering light had finally gone out, bringing shadows and fog to the world outside its walls.

  More than anything else, Will knew the darkness slept in the heart. It lingered like a virus and could stay around, even when the light finally came back in. Bad karma, some might call it, or suppressed feelings, a counselor might say. But the darkness was an evil spirit, and Will believed those demons were real.

  That belief was what got him into trouble in the first place. The powers that be, both physical and spiritual, had destroyed the hope he was trying to put out there.

  “Ever thought about getting back at them?” He heard Hutchence’s voice once again. Another thought came back around too, the one that nudged him to give the guy a call. Go see what else he has to say. Even if he’s completely crazy, at least he understands what happens. That’s more than most people.

  After contemplating it for a while, Will decided to send the stranger another message. He was stuck and frustrated and definitely wanted to do something, especially lashing out at those who had shut down his dreams and his life.

  4.

  “Media outlets in the suburbs of Chicago were greeted this morning with an unusual wake-up call on their sites and in their inboxes. An anonymous video message was sent to them, and it was, to say the least, quite unusual.”

  Coffee in hand, Will turned to the family room wall where the morning news played, his curiosity piqued. He saw a fluffy cat standing on two legs, dancing to a Rolling Stones song blasting in the background. Then it showed a series of videos, from the landing on the moon to Steve Jobs with his first Apple computer to Albert Einstein to the shaky footage of atom bombs going off in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, all while Mick Jagger sang, “Oh, a storm is threat’ning my very life today…”

  Then it changed to footage from the last decade, from the first human to carry a SYNAPSYS, to the Mars expeditions, to the much-hyped unveiling of the AI construct, Lydia. A voice began to talk over the music. “Mankind has created life and death, has pinpointed cancer cells and flown to the moon, has made the impossible possible time after time. But what if King Solomon was right? What if ‘what was will be again, what happened will happen again’? What if ‘there’s nothing new on this earth’? What if everything really is ‘the same old story’?

  “ ‘Nobody remembers what happened yesterday. And the things that will happen tomorrow? Nobody’ll remember them either. Don’t count on being remembered.’ ”

  A series of images flashed by as the voice—male, flat, and most likely artificially created—continued talking. These showed scandals and violence and wars and evil that littered the news daily.

  “Wake up, people. Listen to the words of the prophet Zephaniah: ‘That terrible day of the LORD is near. Swiftly it comes—a day of bitter tears, a day when even strong men will cry out.’ ”

  As he spoke, there were videos of the well-dressed masses walking the city streets in the machinery of the working day, a mother and father hopelessly looking on with their children crying, the president meeting with the Korean government, a survey of how many households in the country subscribe to adult entertainment.

  The narrator continued, “ ‘It will be a day when the LORD’s anger is poured out—a day of terrible distress and anguish, a day of ruin and desolation, a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and blackness, a day of trumpet calls and battle cries. Down go the walled cities and the strongest battlements!’ ”

  The skyline of Chicago was shown, first early in the morning, then late in the afternoon, and then at night with the great Incen Tower gleaming and pointing up to the heavens.

  “ ‘Because you have sinned against the LORD, I will make you grope around like the blind. Your blood will be poured into the dust, and your bodies will lie rotting on the ground.’ ”

  Now there were videos showing the destruction of cities, bomb blasts, and then fires raging. The voice continued its haunting words. “ ‘Your silver and gold will not save you on that day of the LORD’s anger. For the whole land will be devoured by the fire of his jealousy. He will make a terrifying end of all the people on earth.’ ”

  The screen then went black except for the large message written in white:

  THERE IS HOPE…ZEPHANIAH 2…

  The voice ended the message with a closing comment. “This is the Reckoner, and you will be hearing from me again.”

  Will felt the electricity cover his skin, the way it often did when he read an incredible passage in a book or heard a glorious moment in a song.

  What was that all about?

  The pretty blond-haired news anchor came back on with an amused look. “Authorities have not yet determined how the video message was delivered to the media in the Chicagoland area, nor have they been able to identify the party responsible for the so-called warning. Members of the FBI division responsible for network regulation have been called in to oversee the investigation. We’ll keep you posted on any developments in this strange and ominous online prank.”

  Will told the news to mute itself as he checked any messages he might have overlooked this morning.

  “Check inboxes,” he said, his kitchen counter displaying the four places he would get any incoming communication. Nobody had called, and the only message was from Amy, reminding him to take out the garbage. He had opened any important-looking emails, and the image bank had nothing new in it.

  He said to repeat the morning news footage, wanting to see the message again. Will ended up watching it three more times. The voice changed at the end, from the automated robotic voice to a human.

  “This is the Reckoner, and you will be hearing from me again.”

  5.

  “Did you see that weird hacked video that was sent out to the news today?”

  Amy never sent him messages when she was at work in the Nestle-Mars Co. headquarters in Libertyville, so this was unusual. It felt strange to hear her voice pop out of nowhere.

  “Yeah,” Will said in their conversation feed. “Saw it half an hour ago. Watched it a bunch of times.”

  “That was pretty eerie.”

  “Yeah,” he said as he scrolled through the series of online job descriptions he had up on his screen in his office. “Did anyone at your company receive the message?”

  “Lindsey did. She’s one of the heads of our PR division.”

  “Yeah, I remember her. Maybe it was a warning to her to stop talking. She’s a chatterbox.”

  “It’s as if there’s going to be another terrorist bombing somewhere,” Amy said. “Like what happened at the Chicago Theatre.”

  “Don’t worry. There won’t be. Whoever this was sounds as though he at least reads the Bible.”

  He said it more to be witty and c
heer her up than anything else, but he knew her silence meant she wasn’t amused. Amy worried often, but the daily news could worry anybody. The volatility of the world. The violence all across the country. The number of child abductions and the rampant drug problems. All great stuff to keep the nightmares going.

  “Come on,” he said, unable to see her but at least communicating by voice. “What are we always telling the kids? God doesn’t want us to worry, right?”

  “I know.”

  “So I have to remind myself of that. That video was probably from some twelve-year-old tech genius who’s learned how to get into people’s heads.”

  “That’s terrifying. What if he sent something far worse?”

  “Amy, don’t worry about anything. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.” She paused, then added, “Thanks.”

  He seldom gave her good counsel or set the sort of biblical and godly example like he knew he should. This felt—different. Nice, even. Not that what he said was profound. But he did mean it.

  “How’s work?”

  “Someone on the team asked about you,” Amy said. “Said he’d heard about the bookstore closing.”

  “Who? And did he know the reason?” he asked, more alarmed to hear this after watching the video warning earlier that morning.

  “You don’t know him. Hugh Daschton. I didn’t ask what he knew. I just shut down the conversation very quickly.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” she said in a faraway voice. “I am too.”

  6.

  After half an hour Will thought Hutchence wasn’t going to show up. The only confirmation he had received after saying he wanted to continue their conversation was this Mexican restaurant’s address and a photo of a clock showing 7:00 p.m. Now it was 7:33 p.m., and he was on his second basket of chips and salsa, and he hadn’t gotten any sort of message that the meeting was still happening. He decided to go ahead and wave down the server to order, not wanting to waste a visit to what already seemed to be a great dining place. Before he could find his waitress, Raylan Hutchence walked toward him, taking his time before sliding into the booth across from Will.

  “That was called sauntering,” Hutchence said. “How’d I look?”

  “How’d you look?”

  “Yes. Sauntering. One of my New Year’s resolutions was to saunter more since I have this horrible tendency to half jog like a crazy man every place I go.”

  Will shrugged, a bit confused. “I guess…the sauntering is going well.”

  Hutchence laughed. “I’m sorry I’m late. I could explain, but I would have to explain the bigger explanation, which would then force me to go into lots more things when ultimately all I can do is apologize and ask that you understand it wasn’t because I’m a tardy person.”

  “It’s okay,” Will said. “I’m on my fourth margarita.”

  Scratching his thick beard, Hutchence let out another chuckle, knowing Will was joking as he looked at the Diet Coke.

  “I’m glad you wanted to get together again,” he told Will. “How’s job hunting going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine as in ‘I’ve gotten nowhere, and please don’t hound me about it’?”

  “No. Honestly, just fine. I’m trying to connect with some friends to see if there’s something temporary I can do. I’m putting out some feelers.” And I’m frankly feeling a bit screwed and freaked out, but that’s okay ’cause I’ll keep that to myself.

  “Do you mind people who like to use quotes?”

  “No,” Will said.

  “Well, good, because I use quotes.”

  “What if I said they really annoy me?”

  “Selfishly I would go ahead and use them anyway. They’re my arsenal since my own thoughts often pale in comparison. I promise I don’t use my fingers for air quotes, however. So here’s some encouragement. ‘Become a possibilitarian. No matter how dark things seem to be or actually are, raise your sights and see possibilities—always see them, for they’re always there.’ That’s a favorite from Norman Vincent Peale.”

  “Thank you. Can I enroll in your motivational course soon?”

  “Yes. I only take Bitcoin, however,” Hutchence joked. “Here’s another one. This is from King David, and I love it. ‘GOD made my life complete when I placed all the pieces before him. When I got my act together, he gave me a fresh start. Now I’m alert to GOD’s ways; I don’t take God for granted. Every day I review the ways he works; I try not to miss a trick. I feel put back together, and I’m watching my step. GOD rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes.’ ”

  That’s bizarre.

  “What?” Hutchence asked. “You look puzzled.”

  “No, I’m not puzzled. I’m just— That’s the second Bible passage I’ve heard today.”

  “Really? Are they that foreign to hear?”

  “Well, from others, yeah. Except for Sunday mornings, and even those can be rare at times,” Will said.

  “You know, there’s a reason the Scriptures are called living. It’s a great mystery, but they are alive, and they can be instruments of change in your life. But you have to open the Bible’s pages or read the text if pages are a thing of the past to you. Which I know for you they aren’t.”

  “I grew up being told not to read the Bible. To stay away from it, like a German child being told never to discuss Hitler. Naturally, because I tended to do everything my father told me not to do, I ended up reading the Bible all the way through when I was eleven years old.”

  “Did your father find out you disobeyed him?”

  Will nodded, looking down at the blood-red salsa that had spilled onto the table. That was when I lost one father and gained another.

  “Did your father ever discover you were giving Bibles away at your bookstore?” Hutchence asked.

  Once again Will looked at the man across from him, trying to decipher how much he knew, trying to determine if the tone in his voice was changing.

  “I never told you I was giving Bibles away,” Will said.

  “You never told me the name of your father either.”

  He knows.

  Will breathed out and then forced a smile on his lips. “Maybe I don’t need to tell you. Maybe you already know.”

  “That’s not the important thing,” Hutchence told him, rubbing the bottom of his beard like a mad professor. “What I’m curious to know is whether you reached out at any point in the last few years to ask your father for money.”

  “Of course not. I haven’t spoken to him in years. And he wouldn’t give me a cent even if I did.”

  “Ironic, huh? Jackson Heyford is one of the world’s wealthiest and most powerful people, and his son is bankrupt.”

  “I haven’t declared bankruptcy yet,” Will said. “And that’s not the ironic part. The irony is I followed my father’s entrepreneurial passions and dreams with my bookstore, and he was the very one who ended up shutting it down.”

  As the server approached to take their order, Hutchence told her to bring them the bill.

  “I appreciate your vulnerability to a stranger talking about strange things,” he told Will after the waitress walked away. “So I’ll repeat the question I asked you before, but I’ll be more specific. Have you ever thought about getting back at your father? At the man who put you out of business?”

  “The moment I first picked up a Bible was the moment I began getting back at him,” Will said. “But I made my decision years ago, when I turned eighteen, that I didn’t want to have anything to do with Jackson Heyford. I still don’t.”

  “Changing a name doesn’t mean you’re no longer his son.”

  “In my eyes it does,” Will stated. “Now why didn’t you let me order a burrito?”

  “I want to show you something. Something that might help paint a pictur
e of the reality of this situation.”

  7.

  They ended up heading out into the night in a nondescript Toyota car owned by the enigmatic stranger. First Hutchence showed him three different large buildings, one an old church and two structures on bigger campuses. At the third one, as they sat in an empty, sprawling parking lot that seemed capable of holding several thousand, Hutchence explained what he was showing Will.

  “All three of the places I’ve showed you were churches at one time, the three biggest in the western suburbs of Chicago. These were like your bookstore, being run by men and women who didn’t want to conform and bend and break. But since President Blackwood, it’s been impossible to resist. Right?”

  Will nodded.

  “Do you guys publicly attend a church?” Hutchence asked him.

  “Sorta. For the girls. But not consistently. It’s a bit of keeping up with the Joneses. And I struggle with whether to go to a place that never utters the name of Jesus.”

  “Yeah,” Hutchence said. “I’d break bread and drink wine if there was a church I could receive them in.”

  With multiple buildings attached to one another, this former church looked more like a college campus.

  “Life Springs Church,” Hutchence said as he started the car and began circling the building. “Ever heard of it?”

  Will nodded. “We thought about trying it, but it was too far from our home. I don’t recall hearing about it closing.”

  “We hear about white Christian skinheads bombing an abortion clinic,” Hutchence said. “And about secret groups of believers being discovered and arrested and made out to be weird cults. But we don’t hear about things like this, about ordinary churches being forced to close. They were growing. They had never been stronger. But Alden Blackwood put an end to that.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” Will said.

  “I know. But I’m showing these as a matter of contrast. Just wait. We’re driving out to the farmlands that used to exist the further west you drove in Illinois.”

 

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