The Left Behind Collection

by Tim LaHaye

  “Oh, Rayford, the world is a spent cartridge. Even before God unleashed this curse, the globe was in the worst condition imaginable. It makes me wonder how the Lord can tarry until the end of the seven years. Really, what will be left? Poverty is rampant. Law and order are relics. Even Global Community loyalists have lost faith in their government and their Peacekeepers. The Morale Monitors are all on the take, it seems. The people who are to be out and about do not even dare venture into the streets without being armed.

  “Cameron tells me he does not know one common citizen who does not own and carry a weapon. I hardly hear from countries where there are not marauding bands of thieves and rapists, not to mention vandals and terrorists. The best things we have out there are the 144,000 evangelists and the increase in angelic activity the Lord has so graciously allowed.

  “Remember, Rayford, we are down to three kinds of people now: those of us with the mark of God, those who bear the mark of Antichrist, and the undecided. There are fewer and fewer of these, but they are the ones we must reach out to. They are suffering now, but oh, how they will suffer as the sun rises each day. Imagine the turmoil, the devastation. Power shortages, air conditioning overloads, breakdowns. And all this coming with half the population already gone.

  “We are not far from anarchy, my friend. The GC does not care to crack down because they benefit. I am amazed there remain any loyal to Carpathia. Look what he has wrought.”

  “Dr. Ben-Judah, how does this square with your contention that these judgments are as much about God’s mercy and compassion as they are about his wrath? The angel that announced the rivers and lakes turning to blood said it was to avenge the blood of the prophets.”

  “God is just and God is holy, Rayford, but I do not believe he would send any more judgments on the world now if he weren’t still jealous that some repent. No doubt some will. I know the majority will not, because of what the Scripture says about their blaspheming the name of God. Obviously, by now everyone knows these judgments are from God, yet many refuse to repent of their sins.”

  “I agree with you, Tsion. No one could possibly argue that God doesn’t exist. There’s overwhelming evidence of his presence and power—yet most still reject him. Why?”

  “Captain Steele, that is the question of the ages. You remember the Old Testament story of when Moses grew up and refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter, even though he could have? The Bible says he chose ‘rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season.’

  “Well, these people certainly are not Moses. They will suffer torment and lose their souls, all to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season—and what a short season. I applaud your thinking that this may be the time for the Tribulation Force to step up its efforts, to help struggling believers, to find the remaining undecided and help the evangelists and the angels bring them in before it is too late. I wish you Godspeed with whatever you decide.”

  Buck hurried to George Sebastian’s underground quarters, where George’s wife played on the floor with their child.

  “I’ve got to get out and see this,” Buck said.

  “Got to be careful of radar,” Sebastian said. “The GC would be astounded to see anybody in the air during the day.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Chopper.”

  “You up for it, George?”

  “You don’t have to ask twice.”

  Buck had seen vapor appear above the water inlets on cool mornings, but he had never seen the Pacific emit steam as far as the eye could see. “Do you believe this?” he said.

  “I’ll believe anything now,” George said.

  Buck was reduced to silence as fires broke out all over what was left of San Diego. The closer it got to midday, the brighter the sky became. Houses and buildings no longer began smoking and smoldering and finally kindling. Now they shimmered and shook, windows bursting, roofs curling, then whole structures exploding and sending flames and sparks showering about.

  George cruised back over the ocean, where Buck saw the sand change colors before creeping carpets of flame began dancing about. The waves brought the bubbling water in, and it hissed and boiled as it touched the blistering shore. Without warning, the entire ocean reached the boiling point and became a roiling cistern of giant bubbles, sending a fog of steam that blocked Buck’s view of the sky and sun. The chopper was engulfed in white so pure and thick that Buck feared Sebastian would lose control.

  “Totally on instruments now, friend,” George said.

  The helicopter bounced and shook in the soup as they thwock-thwock-thwocked toward the shore. Sebastian was half a mile inland before they escaped the steam cloud and peered down on the burning grasses and neighborhoods.

  “What’s the boiling temperature of blood?” Buck asked.

  “Not a clue,” George said, but he immediately banked and headed toward the San Diego River.

  “Whatever it is,” Buck said, “we’ve reached it.” He gawked at the huge crimson bubbles that formed and burst, emitting a fine spray that rose with the steam. “Agh!” he said, grimacing and holding his nose. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The Tribulation Force was free to come and go, as long as they were careful to plan their travel into time zones that kept them in daylight as long as possible. The only relief for the Global Community forces and citizens with the mark of loyalty was to stay inside below ground level and invent ways to take the edge off the suffocating heat. Even then, hundreds of thousands died when their dwellings burned and fell in on them. Homes and buildings were largely allowed to burn themselves out, as firefighters could not venture out until well after dark.

  Gardens, crops, grasses died. The polar ice caps melted faster than at any other time in history, and tsunamis threatened every port city. Shores and coastlines were buried under floods, and the dump of dead sea creatures washed miles onto land. Had it not been for people having moved inland to avoid the stench and bacteria in the first place, more lives would have been lost.

  In the midst of such turmoil and grief, Rayford and Chloe worked harder than ever to rearrange their storehouses of goods and products traded through the International Commodity Co-op. Knowing their time was limited, they took advantage of everyone’s obsession with finding shelter and relief from the sun. They strategized with Chang to move equipment and aircraft around and created new warehousing and distribution centers, preparing for the last year of existence on a wounded planet.

  In New Babylon, Carpathia himself insisted the heat did not bother him. Chang overheard people in maintenance repeatedly ask whether he wanted draperies over the second story of his penthouse office. Even the ceiling was transparent. The sun was magnified through the glass and roasted his office for hours every day, making the entire rest of the floor uninhabitable. Krystall was relocated deep in the bowels under Building D and had to communicate with him via intercom all day. No meetings could be held in his conference room or office, but he spent most of the day there, ordering people about via telephone or intercom.

  Executives on lower floors had their windows replaced, then taped and coated and even painted black, and most other employee offices were moved to the basement of the vast complex. Chang’s department worked only at night, so he was often able to listen in as Nicolae hummed or sang softly as he worked in his office all day.

  “I will sunbathe in the courtyard while the mortals eat,” he told Krystall one day at noon. Chang snuck to a corner window where he scraped a hole in the coating. He was appalled to see the potentate strip to his trousers and undershirt and lie on a concrete bench, hands behind his head, soaking in the killer rays.

  After an hour, as flames licked at the concrete, Carpathia seemed to think of something and pulled his phone from his pocket. Chang sprinted back to his quarters and listened in as Nicolae told Leon he was on his way to Fortunato’s temporary underground shelter.

  Later, Chang recorded Leon’s call to Suhail.


  “I’m telling you, the man is inhuman! He had been outside, sunbathing!”

  “Leon . . .”

  “It’s true! He was so hot I could not stand within twenty feet of him! The soles of his shoes were smoking! I saw sparks in his hair, which was bleached white—even his eyebrows. His shirt collar and cuffs and tie had been singed as if the dry cleaner had over-ironed them, and the buttons on his suit and shirt had melted.

  “The man is a god, impervious to pain. It’s as if he prefers being outside in this!”

  One day Chang overheard Carpathia call Technical Services. “I would like a telescope set up that would point directly at the sun at noonday.”

  “I can do that, Your Highness,” a man said. “But of course I would have to do it after dark.”

  “And might it have recording capability?”

  “Of course, sir. What would you like to record?”

  “Whether the sun has grown and if bursts of flame from its surface would be visible.”

  The instrument was set up and calibrated that night, and Chang watched the next day as Carpathia hurried outside at noon. He actually peered at the sun through the lens for several minutes. An hour later the lens had melted, and the entire telescope stood warped and sagging in the heat.

  The technician called Carpathia that evening to report that the recording disc had also melted.

  “That is all right. I saw what I wanted to see.”

  “Sir?”

  “That was a very nice piece of equipment. It provided me a crystal-clear image of the noonday sun, and indeed, I could see the flares dancing from the surface.”

  The techie laughed.

  “You find that humorous?” Carpathia said.

  “Well, you’re joking, of course.”

  “I am not.”

  “Sir, forgive me, but your eyeball would be gone. In fact, your brain would have been fried.”

  “Do you realize to whom you are speaking?”

  Chang was chilled at his tone.

  “Yes, sir, Potentate,” the techie said, his voice shaky.

  “The sun, moon, and stars bow to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you doubt my account?”

  “No, sir. Forgive me.”

  Seventeen Weeks Later

  Chang was idly monitoring various levels and temperature records at his desk one evening when he realized that the third Bowl Judgment had been lifted. He called Figueroa. “You’ll want to see this,” he said.

  Aurelio hurried from his office and stood behind Chang. “Look at this reading.”

  “‘Boiling water overflowing the Chicago River,’” his boss read quietly. “‘Overheated and radiation contaminated.’ Nothing new, is it?”

  “You missed it, Chief.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It doesn’t say blood. It says water.”

  Figueroa was trembling as he used Chang’s phone to call Akbar. “Guess what I just discovered?” he said.

  “The waterways will now heal themselves over time,” Chang heard Suhail Akbar tell Carpathia the next day.

  Maybe, Chang thought, if there were decades left.

  It seemed to Chang that Carpathia was less concerned about water and heat because neither plague had affected him personally. What occupied most of his time was the failure, particularly in Israel, of his master plan for taking care of the Jewish “problem.” In many other countries, the persecutions had had relative success. But of the 144,000 evangelists, those assigned to the Holy Land had had tremendous success seeing the undecided become believers. And then, for some reason, they had been able to evade detection. Just when Carpathia and Akbar thought they had devised a sweep to rid the area of Messianic Jews, the sun plague had hit and the GC were incapacitated.

  Now, though Carpathia rarely saw Suhail Akbar face-to-face during the day, they were constantly in touch. Chang was amazed at how much firepower was still available to Global Community forces after all they had lost and had wasted in many skirmishes with the protected Judah-ites.

  The United African States threatened secession because of what Carpathia had done to their ruling elite, while a rebel group there was secretly scheming with the palace about taking over for the disenfranchised government.

  “Suhail,” Chang recorded one day from Carpathia’s phone, “these plagues have always had their seasons. This one has to end sometime. And when it does, that may be the time for us to pull out the half of our munitions and equipment that we have in reserve. Would you estimate that the confidentiality level on that stockpile remains secure?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, Excellency.”

  “When the sun curse lifts, Director, when you can stand being out in the light of day again, let us be ready to mount the most massive offensive in the history of mankind. I have not yet conceded even Petra, but I want the Jews wherever they are. I want them from Israel, particularly Jerusalem. And I will not be distracted or dissuaded by our whining friends in northern Africa. Suhail, if you have ever wanted to please me, ever wanted to impress me, ever wanted to make yourself indispensable to me, give yourself to this task. The planning, the strategy, the use of resources should make every other war strategist in history hang his head in shame. I want you to knock me out, Suhail, and I am telling you that resources—monetary and military—are limitless.”

  “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  “Did you get that, Suhail? Lim-it-less.”

  Six Years into the Tribulation

  Chang arose at dawn, as usual, but he realized immediately that things had changed. He had not been vulnerable to the damage of the sun, but he had been aware of the difference in temperature and humidity. This morning, the air felt different.

  He hurried to his computer and checked the weather. Uh-oh. Show’s over. The temperature in New Babylon was normal.

  Chang ate, showered, dressed, and hurried out. The palace was abuzz. Windows were open. People streamed in and out. He even saw smiles, though most of the depleted employee population was overworked, undernourished, and looked pale and sickly.

  The brass announced that the noonday meal would be served picnic-style, outside. Little was accomplished that morning as everyone anticipated lunchtime. Then the mood was festive and the food plentiful. Many got a peek at Carpathia, striding purposefully about as if he had a new lease on life.

  Chang hurried back to his quarters after work that day, eager to check on the rest of the world. The Tribulation Force had trimmed its sails and pulled in its cannons. They were back in hiding, picking their spots, strategizing for returning to an after-dark schedule.

  Carpathia remained tireless and expected the same of others. He held another high-level meeting with the brass that had spent much of the day moving back to his floor. Even Viv Ivins was invited, and from what Chang could hear, all had been forgiven.

  “For the first time in a long time,” Nicolae said, “we play on an even field. The waterways are healing themselves, and we have rebuilding to do in the infrastructure. Let us work at getting all our loyal citizens back onto the same page with us. Director Akbar and I have some special surprises in store for dissidents on various levels. We are back in business, people. It is time to recoup our losses and start delivering a few.”

  The new mood lasted three days. Then the lights went out. Literally. Everything went dark. Not just the sun, but the moon also, the stars, streetlamps, electric lights, car lights. Anything anywhere that ever emitted light was now dark. No keypads on telephones, no flashlights, nothing iridescent, nothing glow-in-the-dark. Emergency lights, exit signs, fire signs, alarm signs—everything. Pitch-black.

  The cliché of not being able to see one’s hand in front of one’s face? Now true. It mattered not what time of day it was; people could see nothing. Not their clocks, watches, not even fire, matches, gas grills, electric grills. It was as if the light had done worse than go out; any vestige of it
had been sucked from the universe.

  People screamed in terror, finding this the worst nightmare of their lives—and they had many to choose from. They were blind—completely, utterly, totally, wholly unable to see anything but blackness twenty-four hours a day.

  They felt their way around the palace; they pushed their way outdoors. They tried every light and every switch they could remember. They called out to each other to see if it was just them, or if everyone had the same problem. Find a candle! Rub two sticks together! Shuffle on the carpet and create static electricity. Do anything. Anything! Something to allow some vestige of a shadow, a hint, a sliver.

  All to no avail.

  Chang wanted to laugh. He wanted to howl from his gut. He wished he could tell everyone everywhere that once again God had meted out a curse, a judgment upon the earth that affected only those who bore the mark of the beast. Chang could see. It was different. He didn’t see lights either. He simply saw everything in sepia tone, as if someone had turned down the wattage on a chandelier.

  He saw whatever he needed to, including his computer and screen and watch and quarters. His food, his sink, his stove—everything. Best of all, he could tiptoe around the palace in his rubber-soled shoes, weaving between his coworkers as they felt their way along.

  Within hours, though, something even stranger happened. People were not starving or dying of thirst. They were able to feel their way to food and drink. But they could not work. There was nothing to discuss, nothing to talk about but the cursed darkness. And for some reason, they also began to feel pain.

  They itched and so they scratched. They ached and so they rubbed. They cried out and scratched and rubbed some more. For many the pain grew so intense that all they could do was bend down and feel the ground to make sure there was no hole or stairwell to fall into and then collapse in a heap, writhing, scratching, seeking relief.

  The longer it went, the worse it got, and now people swore and cursed God and chewed their tongues. They crawled about the corridors, looking for weapons, pleading with friends or even strangers to kill them. Many killed themselves. The entire complex became an asylum of screams and moans and guttural wails, as these people became convinced that this, finally, was it—the end of the world.