Angel of the Apocalypse

by Hansen, Magnus

  “Whoa, how do memorize all that stuff?” asked Fred.

  “I've been memorizing all that stuff since I was twelve years old,” answered the pastor.

  “Twelve? Is that when you knew you wanted to be a pastor?” asked Fred.

  “Yep,” replied the pastor. “I wanted to be a mystical monk like Grasshopper in that old Kung-Fu show. Anybody who didn't believe in the word of God would get a flying karate kick to the face!”

  “Ha! That's great,” said Fred. “God's enforcer. Is that why you became a preacher?”

  “Well, something like that. Minus the face-kicking part.”

  Fred smiled. “Pastor Justin D. Abrams, the face-kicking preacher from Colorado.” They both had a good laugh.

  “Well, I better mingle some more,” said the pastor. “My flock needs me.”

  About forty five minutes later, the break room was nearly empty. The pastor suspected it was because the cookies were all gone. With a sigh, he began to clear dishes and coffee cups from the table. After a few minutes, his wife Sarah joined him.

  “Another successful Sunday,” said Sarah, as she wrapped one arm around the pastor and gave him a kiss.

  The pastor grabbed his wife's other hand and stepped into a playful dance. “I should have been a dancer,” he remarked. “Let's quit this gig and join a Riverdance troupe.” The music played silently in their minds as they held each other. Life is pretty good, thought the pastor.

  * * * * * * *

  The following Saturday night, about a half-dozen members from the congregation arrived at Pastor Abrams' house for the boxing match. Fred, who studied chemistry at the local community college, brought a case of his own micro-brew. “I think you're going to like this batch, Mr. Abrams. I'm working on a new recipe for a honey brown lager. I'm using a new type of hops,” said Fred, as he handed the pastor a beer.

  The pastor graciously accepted the bottle. Instead of a bottle cap, the beer was sealed with an old fashioned bottle-stopper. He unplugged the stopper and went to throw it away.

  “Whoa, hold on!” yelled Fred. “Those things cost money. When you're done, just put the bottles and the stoppers on the table so I can re-use them. This college student isn't made of money, you know.”

  “Sorry,” said the pastor, as he placed the stopper on the table. He then took a swig from his bottle. “Hey, this is pretty good! Maybe your best batch yet.”

  “Thanks,” said Fred. “Next year, I'm going to apply to the University of Colorado in Boulder. I think most of my community college credits will transfer over. I'm going to major in chemistry. If I graduate, I hope to get a job at Coors as a Brewmaster.”

  “Just give Coors a sample of this beer, and they'll hire you one the spot,” laughed the pastor. “Come on, the fights about to start.”

  Fred and the pastor walked into the living room, were Sarah, Isaac, and four other members of the congregation were eating chips and watching TV. “Fred! Glad you could make it,” said Sarah.

  “You bet,” said Fred. The chairs and couch were occupied, so Fred sat on the floor Indian-style next to Isaac. “Hey buddy.”

  “Hey Fred,” said Isaac, playing with a giant Transformers toy.

  The fight started. Twelve rounds for the IBF light-heavyweight title. A few of the people watching the fight stared at the TV intently, not saying a word. A few other people talked among themselves, and only glanced at the TV when the action heated up. Pastor Abrams was among those who watched the TV intently. He involuntarily clenched his fists and slightly moved his head from side to side as the fighters circled each other.

  “Justin really gets into the fights,” commented Sarah.

  “Uh-huh,” said the pastor reflexively, as he took another swig of beer.

  Shortly into the fight, a news alert ticker scrolled along the bottom of the screen. Reports from around the world were coming in. Some kind of disease was breaking out, causing painful sores and boils on the skin. The disease was spreading rapidly, and most airports were already shutting down international flights.

  “Holy crap,” remarked Fred. “Should we be worried about this?”

  Before anyone could answer, one of the fighters in the ring doubled over in agony. It was strange, because his reaction was not from a punch. Before everyone's eyes, the fighter's body started to blister. The fighter fell to his knees, spit out his mouthpiece, and yelled in agony.

  Everyone in the room just stopped and stared at the TV screen. It was surreal.

  “Dude, what's going on?” asked Fred in a slightly hysterical tone.

  The pastor tried to calm everyone down. “I'm sure there's an explanation for this,” he said. Honestly, he wasn't so sure. What could be the explanation? He had never seen anything like it.

  The boxing match was stopped by the referee. The fight doctor rushed into the ring and started to check the boxer who was writhing on the canvas in agony. A moment later the sports station switched to an emergency broadcast.

  “We interrupt this program to bring you an important news bulletin. Several thousand cases of an unidentified disease have been reported throughout the world. As a precaution, all public transportation has been shut down until we can determine the source of the outbreak. It is advised that all people remain in their homes until we have further information.”

  The news bulletin then displayed a map of the world, with reported cases of the disease showing up as red dots. Every second or two, a new red dot appeared at a seemingly random location on the map. Every continent already had thousands of red dots, with more being added as the seconds ticked by.

  “That doesn't make any sense,” commented the pastor. “A disease starts in one location, and spreads out from there. This seems to be happening everywhere at once.” He looked at his wife, as if looking for answers.

  “I think it's best if we all go home,” said one of the guests. “We all have family we need to call.”

  “Absolutely,” said the pastor. “If you have any problems, anything at all, just call me. We'll be praying for you and your families.”

  The guests nervously left the pastor's house. Pastor Abrams and his wife sat in front of the TV and watched the news reports roll in. By midnight, millions of cases of infection were reported all across the world. Every five to ten minutes, the phone would ring with another concerned member of the church calling in to see if the pastor and his family were OK. The pastor consoled each caller, and assured them that he would pray for their families. And yes, church service would start as normal tomorrow morning.

  “Are you sure that's a good idea?” asked Sarah, as the pastor completed yet another call with a concerned church member. “Shouldn't everyone stay in their homes to prevent infection?”

  “People are scared,” replied the pastor. “They need help. They need guidance. I'm not sure if the disease-” he stopped as another violent image of the Antichrist flashed across his mind. “I...”

  “Justin, are you OK?” asked Sarah.

  “Yes, I just...I think we should get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  Chapter 3 – The Rapture

  The pastor slept fitfully. He dreamed of a giant red dragon with ten heads, rising from the ocean. The dragon emerged from the water and walked towards him. One of the great dragon heads, wearing a crooked crown, bent low to the ground and spoke in a voice that sounded like thunder. “Little man of God, were is your faith now?”

  The pastor shot bolt upright in bed. Staring ahead with wide eyes and sweating profusely, the pastor nervously looked at his hands and arms. Luckily, there was no sign of disease. He then turned to his wife, who was just waking up. She also appeared to be OK. “Thank God,” he mumbled under his breath. “Isaac!”

  “Yeah?” he heard a voice answer from his son's room.

  “Is everything all right?” asked the pastor.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Never mind.” The pastor didn't want to alarm his son.

  “Are you OK?” asked his wife, rubbing the
sleep away from her eyes.

  “Yes. Come on, we need to get ready for church.”

  The two got out of bed. The pastor took a shower while his wife made breakfast. They could hear Isaac in his room playing video games.

  Breakfast was spent eating cereal and watching the morning news. The disease continued to spread. An estimated 350 million people were now infected – nearly five percent of the world's population.

  Not much was said that morning. After breakfast, the Abrams family quietly got dressed and walked across the street to church. Only about half the usual Sunday crowd arrived that morning. They filed in, nervous and apprehensive, but glad to be among friends.

  The congregation was seated quietly before the pastor. He looked at them with sympathetic eyes and spoke, “I want to thank everyone for coming here this Sunday morning. Instead of the usual sermon, I think we should take this time to comfort each-”

  Thunder boomed overhead, shaking the walls of the small church. Most of the congregation peered out the windows, as they watched dark rolling clouds cover the sky. More thunder roared overhead.

  “Looks like we're in for a bit of weather,” remarked the pastor. “I've brought in the TV, so we can look at news updates as they happen. As I was saying, I think we should use this time to console each other. This is a frightful time for all of us. Please turn to your neighbor, whoever is to the left or right of-”

  “BOOM!” Another round of thunder cracked just overhead.

  “Pastor Abrams?” Winston, an old Irish man sitting in the next to last row of pews raised his hand.

  “Yes, Winston?” asked the pastor.

  The old man paused for a moment. His voice slightly cracked when he said, “I got a call this morning that Ru-”

  “BOOM!” Thunder cracked yet again.

  “What was that, again?” the pastor asked, cupping his hand behind his ear. “I couldn't hear you.”

  Winston repeated, speaking louder this time. “I received a call early this morning from Ruth's daughter. Ruth...she passed away last night from the disease.”

  The pastor paused behind his podium. Ruth had been to every Sunday morning service without fail since he became a pastor at this church six years ago. Before he could say something to comfort the congregation, the TV flickered and the news broadcast was replaced with the image of a very good looking man wearing a gray business suit. The man had pale skin and appeared to have two small horns protruding from his temples.

  “Good morning sports fans!” said the man enthusiastically. “We interrupt your regularly scheduled Apocalypse to bring you this important new bulletin. It has been said that all of God's children will be taken up in the Rapture before the Tribulation.” The pale man on the TV screen paused, savoring the moment. “Lies! Only one man has been found worthy of entering the kingdom of Heaven.”

  From the front row pew, Fred stood up. “Hey, this guy is on my cell phone, too!” Fred turned around and showed the rest of the congregation the image of the pale man on his cell phone.

  Pastor Abrams took out his cell phone from his pocket. There was the image of the pale man. It was as if this pale man – this devil – was looking at him specifically. The pastor could see other people in the congregation taking out their cell phones, revealing the image of the same man. Apparently, this was some kind of world-wide broadcast across all media devices. Was such a thing even possible?

  The pale man continued, “And who is this lucky person, the only man worthy enough to enter God's kingdom?” mocked the Devil. “Sources say, he lives in California. Let's take a look, shall we? We go now to our news correspondent Orville, who is live on the scene.”

  The on-screen image of the Devil switched to a confused looking old man who was barbecuing hot dogs in his back yard. The man turned around and looked directly into the camera and said, “Who the fuck are you?” he asked of the short, demonic looking fellow who was holding the camera.

  The camera briefly turned around to reveal Orville. “Wazzup!” croaked the demonic reporter, before training the camera back on the old man.

  “Now wait just a minute, here!” yelled the old man. “What the hell are you doing in my back yard?”

  Before Orville could answer, the clouds overhead broke apart and a single ray of golden light fell upon the man. Still holding a spatula, the old geezer began to rise from the ground and was lifted upwards, into the clouds.

  “Dude,” said Fred, watching the newscast on his cell phone. “The Rapture is only taking one person?”

  “I don't know,” replied another member of the congregation.

  On that day, the entire world watched as a single old man was lifted into the clouds and was accepted into God's kingdom. Each man, woman, and child the world over had a puzzled look on their face.

  The image on-screen changed back to the grinning Devil. “Well, that's all for now, sports fans. We now return you to your regularly scheduled Apocalypse.”

  The TV picture then changed back to the station broadcast, which was showing a map of the world, with reported infections being displayed with red dots. The dots seemed much more numerous than before. The pastor heard a scream from the congregation. It was his wife. “Sarah!” shouted the pastor.

  Sarah was covered with boils across her face and arms. Crying, she whimpered, “Justin, help me.”

  The pastor raced to his wife's side, careful not to touch her exposed flesh. “Sarah...no,” he whispered.

  She coughed into her hand. After another fit of coughing that lasted several minutes, specks of blood could be seen covered her hand.

  “Hold on honey, we'll call an ambulance.”

  The pastor dialed 911 on his cell phone. After being on hold for ten minutes, a message informed him that all emergency lines were busy, and to be patient. “No!” cried the pastor. He looked at his wife helplessly. “What can I do, Sarah? I don't know what to do,” the pastor cried.

  His wife looked at him with compassionate eyes. “Just hold me,” she said, as blood trickled from her mouth. “Just give me one last dance.”

  The pastor held his wife with a painful intensity. They stood in the center of the church, steadily rocking back and forth to a silent song, that only they could hear in their minds. Not caring about the disease, the pastor embraced his wife even tighter, as he felt her life slipping away. “Take care of our son,” she whispered. Then her head fell forward, and rested on the pastor's shoulder.

  Pastor Abrams stood there in the middle of the church, holding the lifeless body of his wife, as the congregation watched in sorrow.

  Winston, the old man from the back row, softly began to sing an old Irish dirge. The rest of the congregation joined him with somber respect. The pastor, still clutching his wife, fell to his knees and whimpered softly. She was gone.

  * * * * * * *

  God sat behind a large white-oak desk, watching the Devil's broadcast with unbridled rage. “How dare he!” cursed God. “Michael!” He called out.

  “Yes, father?” said Michael, bowing before God.

  “Get my limo, we're going to take a little trip,” God replied.

  A few minutes later, a pristine white stretch-limo made it's way down the driveway to God's house. Michael got out of the limo and opened the passenger door for God. “Where are we going?” asked Michael.

  “You know where,” replied God, still seething.

  “Of course, my Lord.” Michael climbed into the driver's side of the limo, and put it into gear. He drove to the end of the driveway and made a left, towards Hell. Thinking that God could use some music to calm his nerves, the archangel reached into the glove-box, and inserted a gospel CD into the CD player.

  “And turn off that damn music!” God bellowed. He was inconsolable. Thousands of years of planning and prophecies had been ruined by the Devil. How did he do it? Hundreds of millions of Christians were supposed to be taken up into Heaven during the Rapture. Instead, he only got one person. It was a mockery of biblical prophecy. He contemplat
ed how he was going to punish the Devil, as the limo made its way to Hell.

  Soon, bright clouds gave way to dark, ominous skies as the limo crossed the barrier from Heaven to Hell. Winged demons perched on street lights, which bowed over the crooked road. Jeers and cackles from the demons followed the limo, as it approached the Gates of Hell.

  After a few more moments, Michael saw a large wrought iron gate, covered with pointed spikes and signs warning trespassers to keep out. A large, three headed dog was chained to the gate. The dog, easily bigger than the limo, stood up at the approach of the automobile and growled menacingly.

  God climbed out of the limo and stood before the Gates of Hell. “Open up, Lucy. You know why I'm here.” Michael stood behind God, ready to protect his Lord, if necessary.

  After a moment, the Gates of Hell creaked open. Out walked Orville and the Devil, who had an impish grin on his face. “God! It's been eons since you paid me a visit! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” he mocked.

  “Oh, cut the crap, you know why I'm here,” seethed God.

  “Yes, but I want to hear it from you, Joe.”

  “Don't call me that, you know my name's Jehovah.”

  “Fine, stop calling me Lucy.”

  “Stop acting like a child!” replied God.

  The Devil feigned concern. “But I am your child, aren't I? Aren't we all God's little children?” He paused, then looked at Michael. “Hey Mike. Long time, no see.”