Story Time

by Linell Jeppsen

  “I need to show you what the Tats gave me—us, okay? Don’t be alarmed.”

  “Michael, wait a second,” Naomi said. She spied the doctor and his friend huddled by the dining room wall. They looked ill at ease, and half starved. She stood up and said, “Doctor would you and your friend please come into the living room and make yourselves comfortable? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Naomi walked into the kitchen. She saw that the children were huddled together in varying stages of undress, while Lori, Wendy, and Josh scurried around with washrags, soap and towels.

  “Aunt Wendy, I took four squares of chocolate, okay?” she said. “Now I need some food for our other guests, um…some bread, some peanut butter and jam, and some apples. Is that all right?”

  Wendy nodded. “That’s fine, honey. Remind me later to write it all down, but right now these guys are a handful!” She looked damp, but happy, while Josh just looked wet.

  He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Kids!”

  Naomi laughed, and grabbed the food. Walking back into the living room, she heard Steven telling the other men about how he and the good doctor had traveled only at night through meadows and high timber from Spokane to here.

  “We would have been robbed and killed for what was in Andy’s bags, but we were luck….” His voice trailed off, and he stared at her, with his mouth hanging open.

  Naomi cursed herself. These men were starving to death! After Michael saved the Harmony compound from attack, and Doctor Grossman stitched her brother up from that same attack, she had paid them back by letting them sit here and starve.

  “I am so sorry!” she exclaimed. “Please…it’s not much, just some PBJ’s and apples, but dinner will be soon. I think its venison stew tonight, and Aunt Wendy and Lori are really good cooks!” She was babbling with embarrassment, but the men paid no attention as they sliced the loaf and spread peanut butter and homemade jam on the bread. Michael picked an apple and ate it in two bites. He reached for another, and then paused, and looked to Naomi for permission.

  “Go ahead, there’s plenty,” she said, and grabbed one for herself. As the men ate their sandwiches, she munched on her apple and thought about what Michael said. She wondered if he was crazy, or if she was for wanting to believe him. The Yellowstone Caldera is going to erupt any day? We are going to be in the future, somehow? Me and mine are going to survive the holocaust? It was too much. Suddenly the apple tasted like cardboard. She realized that the giant black man had concocted a story to gain admittance to the ranch. Wait, she thought.

  Turning to Michael, she asked, “How did you make that school bus fly?” Her voice was harsh with hope, disbelief.

  Michael held up one finger and swallowed the rest of his sandwich. He took a long drink of water from the pitcher she’d brought, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  He sat forward and said, “That’s one of the things they do. They put my car in this bubble, so we could travel undetected, and sometimes they program the bubble to fly. Gary and I were traveling down the median strip coming into Spokane and I had no control over my car, whatsoever. I thought we were going to hit these two people, but zoom…” Michael’s arm soared upward, “We were airborne!

  “After I managed to get the kids out of the bunker—that’s a whole different story—Auntie and Uncle put a force-field bubble around the bus. That enabled us to get here fast and make it onto the ranch. Trust me; you don’t know what it’s like out there. There are cars parked, or stalled, on the roads all over the highway, from Spokane to here. There are encampments, like shantytowns, in all the fields and pastures as far as the eye can see.

  “It’s really bad, you know. Every time I looked out the window, I saw terrible things…rapes, murders, people getting shot over nothing. I practically had to sit on the kids to keep them from looking. I know that some of the older kids sneaked a peek. I tried, but you know how kids are.”

  “You did well, Michael,” Naomi murmured. He glanced at her in gratitude.

  “Where are your alien friends now, Michael?” Steven Cummings asked, as he bit into an apple. His freckled face seemed to have more color now that he had eaten. His crinkly, green eyes were wide with excitement.

  Michael frowned, “I begged them to stay. I knew that it would be a lot easier to explain everything if they were here to speak for themselves, but they said they had to go. I think they are needed someplace else, and I get the feeling that they wasted a lot of time and energy on my brother and I, and the kids.” Michael slumped back on the couch. “It’s easier to think that everything is going to turn out right when they’re around, you know? They seem really calm, for the most part…” Michael was silent for a moment, then he leaned forward again.

  “They left us some things though—things to help us survive what’s coming. I’m going to show you, so don’t be afraid, okay?” He studied the faces that surrounded him. “You guys, would you put your firearms in the other room? Just for a few minutes?”

  Doctor Grossman and Steven Cummings were unarmed, but Steve and David still held their rifles at the ready. They glanced at one another uneasily, and then looked to Naomi.

  She studied Michael’s face for a moment and then said, “Do as he says, please.”

  After the men removed their weapons and sat back down, Michael leaned forward and said, “Look!”

  He held out his right hand and turned it palm up for their inspection. There was a shudder under Michael’s skin and then a small cylindrical form rose into the air. It was obviously alive, and it seemed to be purring. It rotated in the air and turned upside down to show its belly.

  Naomi heard Steve grunt in alarm, but she reached a finger toward it and rubbed the creature’s stomach gently. She laughed as it undulated in ecstasy. When she withdrew her hand, the living object seemed to melt back into the surface of Michael’s skin.

  “This is a Remi,” Michael stated softly. “It’s kind of cute, but it’s a weapon, like none you’ve ever seen before. It has a mind of its own, though. I don’t get to point it, like a gun, and blast away. It seems to know what needs to be done …better than I do sometimes. This weapon should help us in the days to come.”

  Michael sat back with a smile. “There’s one other thing. It should really help. Although I couldn’t convince Auntie and Uncle to stay, they left a part of their shielding capabilities behind to protect the ranch. I’m not sure how extensive it is, or how long it will stay, but for now anyway, we should be safe from attack.”

  Chapter 20

  The following excerpts are compiled from interviews and written accounts of Dwight Engle and his followers (CHURCH OF THE SECOND COMING OF CHRIST) and the faction group (THE ANGEL’S SWORD).

  By no means do the statements reported in the following reflect the opinions of the writers or reporters of the facts herein; furthermore do we note, that most of the accounts recorded here were given by war criminals and enemies of the state prior to EX 2022. Steven Cummings, reporting for The New World Chronicle.

  Dwight Engle –

  I watched as Leonard Price was carried out the door. He was a nice enough man and I would have continued my interview with him, but the retelling of what he saw and heard in the North Idaho DUMB had re-opened old wounds. He began to sob, and I could see that he was starting to hyper-ventilate. I called for the guards and a medic, and stood in the far corner of the room, watching as he was administered a liquid dose of Calm-Balm, placed on a gurney, and wheeled out of the room.

  Price was one of the exceptions in this prison. He had been told, repeatedly, that he was free to leave, but he declined every offer. I think that his association, however tenuous, with the Angel’s Sword had painted his soul black with the sticky tar of guilt and shame, at least in his own eyes.

  There were places here on Harmony that would take Price in, and care for him in his final days, but he refused all offers of solace and forgiveness. Although in some ways, Price had found his way to Heaven, he remained exiled in his own,
personal Hell. Maybe, I reflected, every survivor of earth’s final hours did.

  I had one more interview to do in the New London prison. I was early though, as Price’s interview had terminated so quickly. I walked out the door, waved at the prison guard behind the front counter and stepped outside. It was late morning now and Harmony’s three moons were aligned in the pale pink sky like dominoes. From smallest to largest, the moons hung in the air like Christmas ornaments, glittering in shades of amethyst, jade and scarlet; our constant companions in a vast and lonely universe.

  The air, as always, smelled like fruit and flowers and the Harmoniaries, huge multi-hued butterflies, hummed their way from tree to tree. It was said that these creatures were being trained as pets, and could, if taught properly, carry light payloads, and messages from place to place. It was also said that, if provoked, the Harmoniaries would bite…considering the fact that their mouths were as big as mine, and filled with sharp, needle-like teeth, I thought they should be left to their own devices.

  Everything on this new planet of ours was aware…intelligent…connected. It would not, I thought, allow its new inhabitants to foul and pollute the environment, as we had done on earth.

  I ate a quick lunch, of Lumen-berries and crackers, finished my tea, and walked back inside. I asked the guard for an escort to the infirmary, and sat on a nearby bench to wait. The prisoner I was about to interview was none other than the fabled Dwight Engle, himself. He was over a hundred years old now, but like every human who had survived the trek from earth to Harmony, the clocks had rolled backward, infusing the travelers with newfound health and youth.

  I was thirty-three when we left earth…I was thirty-three when we arrived on Harmony thirty years later. I was reasonably healthy and had only minor injuries when I rode the rock. By the time Andy and I arrived on our new world, we were healthier than ever before. The same thing had happened to all of the colonists from earth, even those who were close to death—even those who did not deserve a second chance.

  My escort arrived; a small pear-shaped robot I knew to be an armed fighter droid, complete with laser weaponry and chemical stun ray technology. It bobbed in mid-air and chimed once in polite acknowledgement.

  “Mr. Cummings, follow me please. Do not touch anything. Do not stop for any reason. This is for your own safety. Please say yes if you understand….”

  I said, “Yes!” and watched as the robots scanner etched my body from head to toe in blue light.

  Apparently satisfied that I was who I claimed to be, the robot rotated and flew slowly down the long corridor leading to the prison’s hospital wing. I followed closely, holding my satchel close to my chest. Finally, after a number of turns and two flights of stairs, we arrived at a non-descript metal door.

  The robot emitted a series of clicks and the lock disengaged with a snap. The door opened into a medical facility filled with high tech machinery, and the quiet purr of the unit’s medi-bots. Windows filled the far walls. I saw purple valleys and a cascade of green water from the NuThames River as it tumbled over large boulders in a magnificent waterfall. One of Harmony’s mountain ranges (appropriately named the Lollipops) filled the background like a row of citrus flavored snow cones: lime, lemon and strawberry. Harmony’s snow was white, like earth’s, but the moons above cast their shadows on the planet below, diffusing everything in dusky Rembrandt palettes of shadow.

  There were a number of patients in the room, but I trained my eyes on the last bed, closest to the window. Two medi-bots hovered around the bed and its occupant. Engle was looking out the window as I approached, and I was able to study his features before he turned to greet me.

  Much of the technology on Harmony arrived when we did, on the armada of hollow meteors that served as space ships during the exodus of 2016. The robots were, of course, designed by aliens, and were a miracle of technology, but even they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stop death.

  I could tell that Engle was dying. His emaciated body barely made the sheets rise, and his skin was gray. Clear plastic tubes ran up into his nostrils and both of his arms were encased in anesthetic sheeting, like Saran Wrap on old earth. His deep-set dark blue eyes were still very much alive though, and studied me as I sat down in the chair that was closest to the hospital bed.

  “Come to take my dying wish?” he rasped, as I settled in and opened my satchel.

  “If you like,” I answered.

  “I do!” his voice rose, and he coughed weakly in agitation. “I wish that God would have kept his promise to me, but he lied!”

  I saw immediately that, as always in Engle’s life, he was setting the ground rules for this interview. This would be no question and answer session, but a rambling account of Engle’s take on life in general, warts and all.

  “How did God lie, Mr. Engle?” I asked his profile. He had turned away from me and stared out the heavy-polymer plate glass window, with the tremulous tears of a spoiled child.

  I looked out as well, and smiled as I saw the silver twinkle of a Tatularian shape-ship whiz by in the sky overhead. It was always a treat when the Tats came to visit. I wrote a note to myself to find out where and when I might hear the Tat emissary speak. Maybe I could get Andy to go with me.

  “That there!” he exclaimed fitfully. “You saw it! Those aliens—they were never part of the plan. Nowhere in the Bible did it say anything about little green men, or Dizo’s, or Urkuli gunners. Nowhere did it say that freaks like you would be saved, or that niggers and spics and chinks were equal in the eyes of God. Niggers are the sons of Cain… everybody knows that!”

  His outburst left him gasping for air and one of the medi-bots touched a button on the machine that fed fresh oxygen to Engle’s nose and lungs. He closed his eyes for a moment, and I saw some color return to his cheeks.

  “Mr. Engle what do you remember about the DUMB, in North Idaho?” I asked.

  Engle frowned and opened his eyes. It looked, for a second, like he was trying to think of a different topic, something entirely off point just to thwart the interview, but to my surprise, he turned to me and said, “I remember everything. That was why I was so surprised at how things turned out. Don’t you see? I was only following the signs; and believe me, they were laid out like a road map for anyone with half a brain to follow.

  “There were pestilence, war, famine and death. See, the four horsemen of the apocalypse! The signs were all over the place. Did you hear about the hailstorm that turned to fire as it hit the ground? And how about the sixty-six who died in that warehouse in Walla Walla? That was another sign. There was even a ten-horned beast that rose up out of the deep waters, but that was a false sign….” His voice faltered, and he closed his eyes, grimacing in pain.

  “Water,” he croaked. I rose to bring him a glass, but before I had a chance to move one of the medi-bots chirped and adjusted something on one of the man’s arm wraps.

  A few moments later, Engle’s eyes opened and he continued, “Anyway, all the signs of the Rapture were upon us, including the swarm. That happened in the DUMB Schmitt led us into. The whole plan seemed sound to me, at least at first. Things were bad after Yellowstone blew up. I really thought, for a while there, that the Angel’s Sword was forsaken of God. That despite everything, we were going to Hell along with all of the other disbelievers, but then we found that military base. I figured we were saved!

  “The children, my lieutenants and I, were in the rear. I had sent the others ahead, in case the whole place was a trap.” He stopped talking and I looked up to see him glaring at me. I raised my eyebrows, and he snapped, “I can tell what you’re thinking! You think I chickened out, don’t you?”

  I shrugged and replied, “Mr. Engle, what I think has no bearing on this interview, now does it?”

  His mouth trembled and he snarled, “No. I couldn’t care less what a faggot like you thinks!”

  I was starting to get use to these comments from the members of the ‘Sword’. Surprisingly, the sting was beginning to wear off. I turned the
page on my notebook and stared at Dwight Engle, with my pen in my hand. He studied my face for a moment, and decided, I guess, that his words had no power over me.

  “Anyway, you probably already know that there were labs down in the basement of that DUMB, where the aliens experimented on God’s children.” Engle closed his eyes and intoned with a sigh, “God bless the orphan.”

  “Well, the devil had gotten a hold of those orphans and done his best. Those labs were chock full of demons, which was, of course, another sign of the apocalypse. I should have felt blessed by the sight. After all, God was showing me and mine the way to everlasting glory, but it was a hard thing to witness. I could tell that there were a lot of white kids in those labs, along with the mongrels, and I found myself questioning God’s will in this matter.

  “It wasn’t my right to doubt the Lord, though, so after the way was clear and most of the Tatulori scientists were blasted back to the hell from whence they came, me and the kids and what was left of the ‘Angel’s Sword’ took the stairs up from the bottom floor and moved to a different, higher level.

  “We had to step over the bodies of our comrades, and this was pretty unsettling for the kids. After all, most of the dead were the parents or brothers and sisters of the surviving youngsters. I made Schmitt stop prowling around and come back to help me comfort them, but I could tell he hated kids by the impatient and surly tone of voice he took when he spoke to them. Luckily, Lenny had survived the alien attack. He was gentle with the kids, even though his wife had died in the alien’s attack and his own girls had been kidnapped by roamers before we had a chance to enter the installations elevator and disable the device.

  “Well, I had my own sorrows to deal with by now. My little brother, Carter, was killed by the alien scientists along with almost the whole front line, and I didn’t want to deal with a bunch of wailing from some two-bit mechanic. He was tough though, and gathered up the kids and herded them ahead of us like an obedient flock of ducks.