by Orson B Wolf
“Wanna help me shake it?” He chuckled.
David heard a zipper being closed and saw the shadow approaching him.
Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, he could see Jackie and the space surrounding them more distinctly. It was a small, windowless room. The walls were bare and not plastered. The entire place looked like some unfinished construction site. He noticed a metal door in one of the walls. Beside him, on the ground, two bricks were placed on top of each other. Jackie had probably sat on them earlier. Now he spat and shoved another cigarette into his mouth.
“David, David, David… you like making my life difficult, don’t you?” He lit the cigarette, took a deep puff, and pointed an accusing finger. “You’re hurting yourself too by being so stubborn. Look where we’ve ended up.”
He blew a bright jet of smoke and it was instantly painted gold by the streetlight. He walked over to David and sat beside him. “I know you are working with the prophet. A kind of advisor or something. You’re probably helping him with his television interviews.” He paused for a moment, then continued with a more pensive tone. “Or maybe there’s no prophet at all, just a bunch of nerds like you who discovered some sort of trick for predicting the future.” He closely examined David’s face before continuing. “No? Well, maybe the prophet does exist?” He watched David closely, looking for a possible answer in the boy’s expression.
David was merely trying to keep his mind clear. His head threatened to explode with pain.
Jackie took another drag of his cigarette and continued. “You know how many articles there are on the internet trying to guess the prophet’s identity?” He rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth in the narrow room.
“Four-hundred and seventeen articles, in English alone. So many people in the world trying to guess who the hell this prophet is and how he can always tell what’s going to happen.”
David tried to listen, but his thoughts began to get hazy. He had to log into the software. Perhaps it had come up with a clear forecast already. Everyone’s security depended on him, even Jackie’s and his family’s. Didn’t Jackie realize it?
He looked into Jackie’s face. How can you cope with a man who has no moral inhibitions? The things that he had done… The image of his grandma rose to his mind again, bound to a chair with her mouth gagged.
“What about my grandmother?” He tried to speak up, sound sure of himself.
Jackie went on with his monologue as if he hadn’t heard him. “I wonder what it feels like to be so close to someone who knows the future. Know when the next hurricane is going to strike, which football team is going to win. You can go ahead and admit that you’re connected to the prophet. It’s so obvious. But anyway, today, we’re going to prove it.” He cleared his throat and spat.
David tried to focus. It wasn’t easy. He was so excruciatingly thirsty.
“I have to drink some water.”
Jackie continued. “You see, I’m positive that the prophet can’t manage without you and I have a way to prove it.”
David said nothing, just looked at Jackie tiredly.
“Aren’t you curious? All right, I’ll tell you anyway.” He pointed up and whispered. “Shh... hear that?” David tried to listen. Something was going on outside. It was distant: a commotion, screaming. Someone was shouting something through a megaphone.
“Yes. You can hear it all right.” Jackie leaned over him and nodded with satisfaction. “An Order of the Prophet demonstration. Now personally, I think they’re a little, you know—” he corkscrewed a finger next to his temple and whistled “—confused. They’re demonstrating now. Everyone’s under pressure because of that whole Russian thing. They’re sure that the end of the world is coming. Maybe they’re right, I don’t know. Anyway, I had a chat with their leader, Moses Morse. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
David could barely stop himself from vomiting because of the sharp smell of urine. How come Jackie had turned to that deluded man?
Jackie continued with a smile. “I told Morse I have access to the prophet and that I can prove it.”
David closed his eyes. If Moses Morse, head of that fanatic cult, was somehow involved… he couldn’t even guess at the implications.
Jackie continued. “He didn’t really believe me at first. I had to convince him I wasn’t one more of those weirdos that bother him every day. I guess now he has more psychos knocking on his door than ever, with everyone psyched over the attack that may or may not be coming.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyways, the prophet is supposed to go live in exactly one hour.”
Jackie continued to talk and David shut his eyes. The commotion outside was intensifying. He heard distant sirens. Patrol cars? Ambulances? And there was something else. Barking. He heard it despite the general commotion. Lots of dogs. They weren’t very far from the SOS Pet Rescue shelter, then. David felt himself drifting away.
A hard kick hit his injured elbow and made him jolt painfully awake again.
“Hey, don’t fall asleep. I’m just getting to the good part.” Jackie stood over him and took another deep puff of his cigarette. “I’m guessing that today at eight, at the most critical moment of all, the prophet won’t go on the air. What do you think?” He flashed a wide smile.
David didn’t answer.
“This is what I promised Mr. Morse too. I told him that the prophet is going to bail on the whole world today and not show up for the scheduled interview. That certainly got his attention. You know how much people would be willing to pay for their own private communication channel with the prophet? More than you could ever imagine.”
Jackie looked into David’s face and burst out laughing. “You look shocked. What do you say, can the prophet go on the air without you?”
David looked straight into Jackie’s face and asked, “What about my grandmother?”
“Grannie? How should I know?” Jackie feigned naivety at first, then burst into another fit of laughter. “She’s all right, I think. Asked me to say hello to you. Tell me. What’s the deal with all the cats and appalling hairpins? How come your parents don’t send her to the farthest looney bin?”
Jackie’s mocking tone enraged David and made him try to get up on his feet. “I won’t let you talk like that about—”
Jackie moved forward and easily pushed David back to the ground. David, too weak to resist, groaned out in pain and frustration. He lay on his back and closed his eyes.
Jackie stopped chuckling and spoke again, in a matter-of-fact tone. “All right, let’s talk business. Help me and I’ll help you. See this phone? I’m sure you can connect to whatever needs connecting from every device. The moment we talk to the prophet I let you talk to your grannie. What do you say?”
David blinked and tried to focus. Maybe he’d be able to find a creative solution and have Jackie allow him to talk to his grandmother without exposing his secret. Maybe he could convince Jackie that he had nothing to do with the prophet. If only he could think clearly, plan his next move somewhere with some fresh air.
Jackie took a set of keys from his pocket and turned to the door. “All right, I’ll just give you some time to mull it over.”
David suddenly realized he was about to be left there on his own. He had to say something, and say it right now.
He coughed. “Suppose…” he said. Jackie stopped in his tracks and turned to him.
“Suppose I do have access to the prophet, just like you say I do…” David carefully considered every word. “Isn’t it in your best interest that the prophet would go on the air and do something?”
He saw that Jackie was listening, so he took a deep breath and carefully continued.
“If the missiles start falling, none of us will survive. We’re all going to end up dead. You heard what they said at school. This is no joke. Your family, all your friends, everyone is going to die. So please, please t
ry to look at the big picture.”
David drew encouragement from the sound of his own voice, now surer and steadier. He coughed, cleared his throat and continued. “I know you have a score to settle with me. I’m really sorry for looking down on you.”
David meant every word and hoped that Jackie heard it in his voice. “You’re a leader. People follow you because you know how to make the right calls. So let’s suppose that you’re right and I do have some sort of connection to the prophet. If that’s true, then you should give me my cell phone and leave me on my own for a few minutes. If the missiles start falling, we’re both going to end up losing. Help me turn us both into winners. And together, we save the world.” He turned silent and closed his eyes. Speaking had drained the last ounce of strength out of him.
Jackie stood over him, motionless.
In the silence that settled over the room, David could hear the commotion outside growing louder. A new sound was now added to that of the sirens and screaming: the sound of distant gun shots.
It seemed that Jackie was deaf to all those noises. He kept looking at David with a concentrated expression. Finally, he said, “I see that you and I aren’t really on the same page here. So let me give you quick rundown.”
“I don’t want both of us to end up winning. I’ll never let you win anything. I don’t give a fuck about the missiles. Fuck everyone. If I lose, then the whole world can just go to hell. So get this into your little head. There’s only one way for you to get out of here: calling the prophet and giving me control of the whatever system you’re using to talk to him.”
David shivered. The world swirled about him. Jackie’s image had turned hazy and unreal. He heard Jackie say, “I’ll let you think about it. There’s some water here.” The image was gone, followed by the sound of a heavy door being slammed shut.
He heard the sound of Jackie’s receding footsteps. Stairs? He couldn’t be sure. He had to drink. He raised himself on his elbow and checked around him.
Jackie said something about water in the room. What did he mean? The dark room looked completely empty. He began to crawl on the concrete ground. His hands finally touched an empty plastic bottle tossed in a corner.
He crawled until he reached the heavy metal door. He rose a little and stretched a hand to the handle. The door was locked, which wasn’t surprising. He sat heavily, leaned his back against the door, and looked up at the opening in the ceiling. There was a flash of lightning, followed by its companion thunder, as rain began to fall. The heavy drops rushed through the opening and thudded against the concrete ground. Cold rain water splashed on his legs.
He examined the opening in the ceiling. It was too high and he had no way of climbing up. Another dizzy spell overwhelmed him, forcing him to close his eyes. David curled into a ball with his arms wrapped around his knees, his teeth chattering from the cold.
52
Being Closer to God
“Sir, they’re waiting for you.”
Moses Morse stood in the trailer’s makeup room and looked at the large mirror on the wall.
The cry coming from outside sounded urgent. He grunted. Greta, his personal assistant, tended to treat him like a child.
What did she think? That he didn’t know everyone was waiting for him outside? Wasn’t it him who had asked her to invite the top media representatives to cover the event? He had also prepared a detailed list of names and instructed her to make individual calls and make sure the journalists would indeed be there, with full camera crews.
He had personally taken care of so many details; he had even had to arrange parking spaces for the broadcast trucks, including electricity and internet infrastructure.
The stingy Green Pines municipality was no help at all and refused to spend a dime. He’d even had to pay for fifteen porta-potties from his own pocket. As if they didn’t care about the fact that he was giving this little town more PR than it had ever dreamed of.
Setting up the giant tent had cost a fortune, an inconceivable amount. Far beyond the budget he had planned on spending. The production company had taken advantage of the so-called emergency situation and demanded an increased rate for performing the work during wartime. That was what the cowards had called it, “wartime.”
But Morse had decided to spare no expense, to do the maximum to make this into a perfect evening. At least two thousand beverages had been sold, as well as shirts and hats of the Order of the Prophet, which somewhat balanced the expenses for this evening. His evening.
Someone knocked on his door.
“Just a few more minutes,” Morse grumbled.
He heard Greta’s receding voice, “Everything is fine, he’ll be right out.”
The commotion outside intensified. Over the past hour, the grass lawn had filled with a crowd of Order members and supporters. The Order’s opposition was present as well, and police forces feared a clash might erupt between the two groups.
The official estimate was that five thousand people were in attendance, but the police were out in force, using horse-mounted officers to maintain order. This was personally reported to him a few minutes ago. The reporting officer had emphasized the fact that the event was approved only temporarily, and that if a security alert would be issued, they would have to stop the gathering immediately, disperse the crowd, and lead everyone to the nearest city shelters.
This was doubly true if the air-raid siren sounded: in that case, everything had to end immediately. There was a chance that a mass panic would erupt, and a terrible disaster would ensue unless security forces could act fast.
“If that siren goes off…” The officer began, and Morse knew what he was thinking. It was written all over his face. If that siren went off, he could not predict the behavior of his own officers. A nuclear blast equally burns people with or without uniforms, and the police officers knew that all too well. It was difficult to obey orders when a blinding blast might appear any second and erase you from existence.
Morse kept his thoughts to himself. He apologized for the commotion and promised that his people would cooperate with security. He, of course, would prefer a much larger crowd, but fear of the possible war had caused many to shut themselves at home or go to one of the city shelters. “Stupid oafs,” he muttered. There was no chance the Russians would strike—that would be suicide.
The moment you attack, you would be attacked right back. And when nuclear weapons were involved, this would spell your end. Moses knew that only stupid people would commit suicide. If there was one thing certain regarding the Russians, it was this: they were far from stupid.
He leaned closer to the mirror and closely examined his face. His cosmetologist had screwed up, no doubt about it. “All I wanted that stupid cow to do was fix my eyebrows a little. Was that too much to ask?”
He clucked his tongue and moved closer to the mirror. He had emphasized to her a thousand times how important it was to maintain his natural look. Now he looked like… well, he himself wasn’t sure what he looked like anymore. But the trimmed bushes above his eyes looked nothing like eyebrows, that was for sure. His forehead furrowed with anger, making his eyebrows curl like an alien creature’s. How was he supposed to go in front of the cameras like that? His big moment had come and he might fail because of such little, supposedly inconsequential details.
“God is in the details,” he muttered. It has been years since he had closed his business on the other side of the continent—“Holy Moses Cars: Rental and Sale”—but seemed like it was only yesterday. During that time, people had still known him by his true name: Moses Arthur O’Malley.
His car business in Miami was booming. His bank manager was happy, that’s for sure. But Moses had always felt that he was meant for more than that.
One morning, almost four years ago, it happened. An article in “Vehicle World” magazine had caught his eye. The headline was “The Vehicle Marketplace—Where To? The ma
n who knows the future answers your questions.”
The article spoke of a mysterious figure existing in the virtual realm who was able to predict the future. The reporter had even managed to obtain an exclusive interview with the prophet. That morning, Morse’s life changed forever. Throughout that day, he had gone about with a vague feeling that he’d discovered something—that he had come across an exceptional opportunity, a lifetime opportunity to do something great.
Moses was a sharp salesman. He knew that wherever a product was in demand, there was money to be made, and lots of it. And there was one product consistently in demand throughout history, and always will be. Morse didn’t know what to call this product exactly, so he simply referred to it as, “Being closer to God.”
Arthur Moses O’Malley closed his company. He changed his name to Moses Morse and went out on a journey to fulfill his dream.
It wasn’t easy. The figure who claimed to act as the bullhorn for the prophet was controversial from the very first moment. He had known difficult days, at least in the beginning.
The amount of ridicule he had received was enormous. They called him “that fool from Florida” and no one was willing to take him seriously. But deep inside, he felt that he was doing the right thing. It was more than that: he felt that he had found his calling. When he saw the way people’s eyes widened, when he saw their tired look being replaced with hope by the sound of his words—he was filled with an immense feeling of satisfaction.
He closely followed the “The Prophet’s News” website. He hurried to shout out each forecast published on it from each stage he could find—hinting that the prophet himself had personally told him the prophecies. The fact that there were those who had actually believed him did not surprise Morse. “You can always count on people for being stupid.” His late mother had told him, and boy, was she right. It wasn’t luck that had made him so successful in the automobile business.
The media, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. The top journalists called him an opportunist, a loathsome parasite feeding off the plight of the people. One of them had even gone as far as to compare Morse to the mouse from some fable, running beside an elephant, looking back and saying, “Wow, look at how much dust we’re raising!”