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 ChronicleMichael’s Sword – December 3rd, 2015
A crowd of people were gathered in the front yard, watching as Michael Anderson strode down the gravel drive toward the advancing army. I shaded my eyes and saw Andy standing in the tent entrance, watching as well. Michael Anderson was a huge man, almost seven feet tall, but he looked small, insignificant, as he approached the hundreds of people who marched toward the ranch.
I ducked down behind the rear fender of a service truck behind the tent so Andy wouldn’t see me. I knew he would try and stop me from recording the events that were about to unfold. He would appeal to my sense of responsibility, to my commitment to our relationship; in short, he would do and say anything to keep me out of harm’s way. I was a reporter though, and had been since the ninth grade, when I took my first journalism class and photography lessons.
I was only moderately successful, although I had enjoyed my moments in the sun. I started out as a cub reporter for Q-6 news in Spokane, and after two years moved to King 5 news in Seattle. Three months later, I moved to Los Angeles, where I won the DuPont award for broadcast journalism, while covering conflicts in the far and Middle East for the L.A. Times. I reported from the war-torn deserts of Iraq and Iran, and the rat-infested underbelly of South Korea. I was embedded with the Navy Seals, and rode the harrowing mountain highlands of Afghanistan, all but certain that the story would be my last.
Finally, after suffering a physical collapse and almost dying from hypo-glycemia and dehydration while on assignment, I shipped home and took a job back in my old stomping grounds in Spokane, Washington. I was happy, relaxed and beginning to build a new fan-base when I met Dr. Andrew Grossman. Life was good for many years, and then the world started to break.
I covered as much as I could at a professional level after the natural disasters. Everyone at the station did, but when the satellite feed went down and the power shut off, the editor in chief told us all to go home, to look to ourselves and our families. He hugged the women, shook the men’s hands, went back into his office and closed the door.
I packed up and went home, waiting for Andy to show up so I could tell him the news. Two days went by and there was no word from my partner. I paced the floors, staring out the windows at the carnage and bedlam below me on the streets. I couldn’t believe the things I saw and heard. There was looting, rapes, street gang warfare, and always the threat of the aliens, who strafed the street below them with gusto.
I tried calling the emergency room at Sacred Heart hospital, but the lines were either busy or completely dead. I was afraid to go to my car. The night before I’d heard shouts, screams and angry voices in the parking garage below our apartment. Honestly, I figured the car was probably a picked over mess of spare parts by now, or so heavily guarded I would be taking my life in my hands trying to access it.
I had to find Andy though, or die trying. On the third day, I waited until dark, dressing in my darkest clothes. I planned on riding my mountain bike down the back alleys to the hospital campus six blocks away. I thought that if I was careful I could fade into the shadows and ride fast around any obstacles I might encounter. I was just opening the door to the apartment to peer out when I heard a key in the lock. I jumped back with a yelp of alarm, and stared as Andy crept in the door with two heavy nylon bags and sagged against the nearest wall.
I shut the locks and knelt down to peer into Andy’s eyes. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried!” I knew my voice was petulant, and I cringed at the expression in his face. “I’m sorry, Andy. Really, I am so glad you’re home,” I added.
“We’ve got to go, Steven. The hospital is evacuating…there aren’t enough meds, and we can’t even do the simplest triage for everyone who is sick and dying. One whole wing has been taken over by a bunch of thugs for shelter, and the drugs that were stashed there. Steven, they killed everyone who got in their way!”
His eyes were rolling in panic at what he’d seen in the hospital’s emergency ward, and at his inability to do anything about it. I held him in my arms and listened to his halting account of the downfall of one of Washington’s premier hospitals. Two days later, armed with a little food, the clothes on our backs and the two heavy med kits, we escaped and made our way out of Spokane.
The journey from Spokane to the Harmony ranch took on the surreal quality of Frodo and Sam’s trek through Mordor. We made our way on bicycles at night, after darkness fell. We scurried like rats from one place to another, hiding unseen under bushes and broken fences, running like rodents from the light of the sun and the heavy gaze of our fellow man; men, it seemed to us, who were now every bit as frightening as the aliens that invaded our world. The things we saw, the atrocities we witnessed, destroyed something inside of my brave doctor. The well-deserved pride, unshakable calm and subliminal arrogance of a professional healer fled, leaving a broken and vulnerable man behind to cope with the end of the world; a man who leaned heavily upon me for support, and the strength needed to carry on.
Now, because of who I was, a journalist, I was going to go after the story, whether Andy liked it or not. I had to document the facts, so that future generations would know the truth, or at least one of truth’s faces. I grabbed my camera and ran like hell to catch up with Michael Anderson.
Skirting to the left of the gate, I ducked and scurried between cars, trucks and vans that were parked nose to tail along the high fence. The farm tractor was parked closest to the guard towers. I shimmied up onto the top of the cab, and eyed the barbed wire and alien plating that was placed on top of the fortified fencing, and saw that if I jumped just right, I would land on the highest ladder rung.
I tucked my camera inside of my coat, took a deep breath and lunged into the air. For a second I thought I had miscalculated, that I would fall into the snow below in a tangle of sharp wire and broken limbs, but then my fingers caught the slippery wood and held on for dear life. I looked over my shoulder and saw that, miraculously, no one had noticed my escape.
I clambered up the last rung and perched on the platform for a moment. Looking out, I saw that Michael was stopped about fifty feet away from the encroaching masses. I had to hurry! I took two steps down and then jumped the rest of the way. It was only about a four-foot drop, but the snow was frozen almost solid. I slipped and felt the air whoosh out of my lungs at my bodies’ hard impact with the frozen turf. I managed to get up though, and I sprinted across the snowy pasture and ducked down behind a small fir tree that was about twenty feet away from where Michael stood.
Michael turned toward me and said, “You shouldn’t have come, Steven. The Remi is in attack mode, and I can see that these folks have not come in peace.”
I turned to look and sure enough, almost every man, woman, and child had some sort of gun in their hands. I saw that a number of people had noted my approach, and a lot of those weapons were now pointed at me as well as Michael.
I turned back to Michael, and said, “You can’t stop the press.”
He stared at me, frowning. Then a sunny smile lit up his face and he grinned. “Always did hate the press.”
A Ford Explorer moved slowly up the driveway. Four men stood on the running boards on either side of the vehicle. All four held small machine guns in their hands, and I felt fear run through my bowels like turgid water. There comes a moment in every war reporters life when respect for the press and sheer rage dance along the edge of a razor. Usually, no matter what’s going on, people on both sides of a conflict crave the chance to defend their position. I wondered now, though, if Dwight Engle cared enough to explain his presence here, or if he would just roll over any obstacle, no questions asked, in his mission to breach Harmony’s perimeters.
The Ford lurched t
o a stop, and I studied the shadowy shapes within the car. Then the passenger door opened and a tall, lean man climbed out. I figured he was in his late fifties or early sixties. He had the well-fed appearance of a corporate executive…sleek gray hair, and cold, dead eyes. Two other men walked up and stood on either side of him; one a twitchy, little man with blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, and the other a hulking, hairy giant of a man, with black hair, a ragged beard and the glittery, brown eyes of a mean dog.
“My name is Dwight Engle, and this is the ‘Angel’s Sword,’” he announced. He looked Michael Anderson up and down, and said, “Who the hell are you?”
Michael said, “My name is Michael Anderson. I’m here to protect the people of the Harmony ranch from a hostile takeover. Now…what do you want?”
I snapped pictures of Michael and the army of people who threatened us. For the most part they were a raggedy bunch; they looked half-starved, and were dressed in ill-fitting coats and broken shoes. I saw that many of them looked ill, and remembered that Engle had sent the sick children in from his own ranks.
Dwight Engle studied Michael for a moment with scarcely concealed loathing. Then he said, “My people and I don’t truck with the sons of Cain. Send the girl and her brothers out to parley, or we’ll torch this place and everyone in it.”
At those words, a chorus of hallelujah’s and Praise the Lord’s filled the air. The juxtaposition of dark action and light, glorious words shook me. I marveled at Engle’s hold over his army, and at what people could become while in thrall to a madman.
Michael was unimpressed, however, and shook his head. “There is only one brother left to her now, thanks to you. You will never speak to Naomi, or come close to this ranch. Now, turn around and go back from where you came, or I’ll kill all of you where you stand.”
Michael’s deep voice rang with clear authority. I saw that he held his right fist close to his chest. From where I crouched, I could see a steady blue light reflecting off the fabric of his blanket-coat. I wondered how long the Remi would stay still.
Dwight Engle looked both shocked and amused. He grinned and replied, “You and what army?”
He looked past Michael and studied the people who stood at the ready within Harmony’s perimeter. I turned around and stared, snapping pictures of my own people; people I had grown to love and respect. Steve Zakar stood foremost, along with Naomi’s brother Zack. Fifty or so more men stood shoulder to shoulder, armed with shot guns, rifles and pistols. Behind them the women stood, silently watching. Many of them held guns as well, and knives, and in Lori’s case, a rolling pin.
I saw a flash of red and realized that Naomi was being kept in the back, away from harm. Then I saw Andy. My camera lens framed his angry and anguished face. I knew that if I survived this encounter, I would have a whole new war to contend with once I got back inside the compound.
Michael barked, “Don’t you even set eyes on those people, Engle. Turn around and leave now!”
Engle smiled. Then he turned around and screamed, “Attack!”
Within seconds, hundreds of voices rose into the air, fueled by hate and rage. I hit the ground as gunfire erupted and bullets whizzed by my head. I raised my camera and the shutter whirred. In crazy strobe-like flashes, I saw Engle run toward the Explorer, while his men at arms raised some sort of metal plating in front of the vehicle. I saw Michael’s hand blaze to life and a blue beam of light shot from his palm to envelope scores of people who ran toward him, screaming bloody murder.
I felt something slug me, and realized that I’d been shot. I didn’t stop taking pictures though, even as my eyes grew dim and my ears filled with the sound of an oceans throaty roar. The ground shook, and I thought it was the pounding feet of Engle’s soldiers. I turned toward Michael, and saw that he had been shot as well. Blood fell in a red, rushing river from his left shoulder, but still the Remi smoked and burned in the man’s hand.
The ground shook more. Great, shuddering jolts tossed me about like water on a hot skillet. What I thought was shock was, in fact, an earthquake. I let the camera fall to the ground and watched as the advancing army fell to the ground with cries of fright and dismay.
I saw Michael go over backwards, and land in a heap on the ground. People ran helter-skelter while the ground beneath their feet heaved and moaned like a wounded beast. I heard cries of panic, and saw Dwight Engle’s army running; running away back down the road, and into the trees.
Just before I lost consciousness, I saw the Ford Explorer creep away, as well. I stared at charred and smoking bodies, victims of the Remi attack, and watched as they moved up and down like horses on a carousel. I slipped away to dreams of being on a ship at sea, riding the steady waves, looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead, into the bloody red skies of the setting sun.
Chapter 30
Wicked people cannot sleep unless they do wrong, and they are robbed of their sleep unless they make someone stumble. They eat food obtained through wrongdoing and drink wine obtained through violence. 4:16-17 God’s Word
Naomi –
The old woman stood and paced slowly back and forth across the stage. The audience stirred with emotion, knowing what was to come, some of them remembering what had happened thirty years earlier, the emotions,the fear, just as raw now as then. Naomi’s son brought the speak globe to her, and the creature kept pace, floating in the air behind her head.
“The earthquake was unbelievable.” She paused, gazing down at the face of her old lieutenant, who nodded in agreement.
She shrugged and continued to pace back and forth across the stage. “Members of the Harmony ranch were tossed around like a green salad, and I could see the soldiers of Engle’s army jerking up and down like puppets on a string, and falling to the ground, screaming in fear,” she added.
She sat back down in her chair. After a moment she said, “The only thing I cared about, though, was Michael. I saw him get shot…I saw the red spray of blood that fanned out behind him in the cold afternoon light, and watched as he fell to the ground. I screamed and lunged forward, but strong arms held me back.
“The ground below my feet writhed up and down, sending dust, ash and snow into the air. An unearthly howl rose from the depths, as well. The very dirt hissed and moaned as if it were being tortured, and the timbers of my parents’ house cried out in protest as its foundation heaved and strained against the beams it supported.
“‘Naomi, come on!’ My brothers’ voice pierced my horror, and I followed him as he ran toward the barn. He grabbed me close and we knelt down under the huge support beams of the barn’s double entrance doors. Many years earlier, my father had watched news reports about the collapse of dozens of metal pole barns and storage buildings under the burden of heavy snow loads.
“More than thirty horses had perished in one barn alone. My dad wept at the loss, raging at the builder’s incompetence, and swearing that he would never allow shoddy work to be done on his property. The barn was in need of repair at the time, and he called his brother Allen to come and do the work. When Allen and his crew were done, the old barn stood proud and rock solid—a testimony to high-grade lumber and superb craftsmanship.
“Now, as the earthquake rolled through the land, my brother and I, and most of the other Harmony members, crouched inside its walls and prayed that the timbers would hold fast against the onslaught. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably closer to five or six minutes, the ground stopped shaking, and we ventured outside. The house was sitting akimbo on the cement walls of the foundation, and part of the roof had collapsed. The medical tent was flattened on the ground. Cars, trailers and trucks had hop-scotched across the lawn, and sat together in a pile, like broken toys in the aftermath of a child’s temper tantrum.
“I looked over the fence and saw that Steven Cummings was trying to drag Michael’s body toward the fence line. I saw that he too was wounded. Just as I cried out in fear, Dr. Andy raced past me with a med kit in one hand. Engle’s army had fle
d, leaving the snowy field clear, except for what looked like a smoking pile of corpses in the far northwest corner.
“‘Let’s go and try to help.’ Zack gasped. Together we flew through the gate and ran toward Andy, who knelt on the ground by his partner and my love, Michael Anderson.
“‘Leave it, it’s just a scratch,’ Steven complained as Andy peered at the bloody crease across his left shoulder. Indeed, it looked to me as though the bullet had a scored a bloody finger across the muscles of Steven’s shoulder.
“Turning to me, the doctor snarled, ‘Naomi, take this towel and hold it hard against the wound. It is just a scratch, but it’s still pretty deep. The pressure should slow the bleeding. Zack, I need you to help me, please.’
“I whispered, ‘Sorry,’ and winced in sympathy as Steven’s face grew pale at the heavy pressure on his injury. Then, I turned to look at Michael, as Andy and my brother crouched over him, working furiously.
“‘Is he…’ I whispered, dreading the answer.
“‘No,’ Andy growled, ‘at least, not yet. The bullet is lodged in his chest cavity though. It has to come out, and soon, or he won’t make it.’
“I looked down and saw the Remi raise itself up and out of Michael’s palm. It balanced itself in the air and looked for all the world like a prairie dog, coming up for air, and searching the wind for friend or foe. It turned completely around, and stopped, facing me. Then, it took a leap and landed on my left thigh. I gasped, wanting instinctively to brush the creature off my body in revulsion, like a bug. Then I caught Michael’s eye. He looked dazed, and his dark skin was ashy with pain and shock. Still, his eyes held mine, and he murmured, ‘Don’t move, Nay. The Remi is picking a new…new host. It’s an…an honor to be chosen.’ Then his eyes rolled backward, and he fainted.
Story Time Page 21