by Orson B Wolf
The prophet himself had never mentioned Morse, except that single time in which he distinctly said that he had nothing to do with him. Moses had reacted to the prophet’s words by explaining that he respected the prophet’s wishes to present himself as a neutral force that does not favor one side or another, but would still continue to perform his duty and spread the prophet’s words to all people, whoever they may be.
The prophet’s announcement had come too late anyway. People find it hard to admit that their belief is erroneous and will cling to any excuse in order to keep their faith.
And Morse continued to accumulate power. The many efforts he had invested over the course of four years had paid off. The numerous miles he had traveled, reciting and improving his speech on his way to another two-bit radio station hardly anyone listened to; all the demonstrations in which he had paid participants to raise his banners; the lectures he’d insisted on giving to an audience of bored housewives; all the money he had spent from his own pocket—well, the continuous effort had finally borne fruit.
And that fruit was exceptionally juicy. Moses had bet all his chips on the fact that the prophet might would grow as the world became more unstable. And boy, was he right. Everything that had happened in recent months was a dream come true. The deteriorating security situation, the devastated economy, the capricious weather—and then there was the weak, hesitant government that offered no hope.
And not only in America: the whole world, east and west, thirstily drank the prophet’s every word. People were seeking the proximity of the all-knowing entity. And when the prophet lingered with his replies, who did they all turn to? That’s right. Moses Morse.
And now came the icing on the cake. At seven thirty in the evening, Western Standard Time, Mr. Morse would speak live, simultaneously broadcasting on all four major television networks.
He looked in the mirror and smiled, seeing a man who had built an empire in a mere four years, a man whose name was known by millions, who had convinced a hundred thousand believers to sign a petition calling for the establishment of a temple dedicated to the prophet, who had already raised twelve million dollars to fulfill the Order’s vision—that man was about to go live before the whole nation.
It wasn’t by chance that he had chosen to give his speech in Green Pines. The Bay Area was a key destination of his campaign, and the prophet’s assistance in the local abduction situation had strengthened public support for him here more than anywhere else.
Renting a trailer was his loyal personal assistant Greta’s idea, and it was an excellent one. That way he could easily travel from place to place with all the equipment and transform his arrival in each city to a kind of well-publicized festival. Moses loved the trailer, loved everything that had been going on in the past few days. He savored every moment of it.
All the major networks’ journalists, who had just recently ridiculed him and turned down his requests for some crumbs of national coverage, now begged him to give them a moment of his precious time. All those smug, arrogant pricks—certain that the sun shone out of their asses—were now standing in line to get the first exclusive interview with him after the speech. He hadn’t yet undecided which of them would emerge as the privileged winner.
He had another reason to be especially happy today. He has been restless in the past few days. Outwardly, he had demonstrated the same self-confidence and air of religious purpose, but deep inside he knew something was still missing for him to make the most of this opportunity. The speech would be broadcast nationwide, so it wasn’t enough to repeat the same old “The prophet sees every one of us” message.
This time, Moses had to renovate himself and pull a trump card. Something solid and meaningful for the watching masses that would turn him into the prophet’s official representative on Earth. He had to bring some new tidings that would silence those who doubted him once and for all.
He looked at the makeup table. Next to the hairbrush lay a small note that Greta had left for him a few hours before: “A guy named Jackie Richmond asked that you call him back.” The message included a callback number. He trusted her judgment, so he immediately picked up the phone and dialed. Jackie answered after only one ring. He sounded very young, but there was a remarkable self-confidence in his voice.
Richmond. Moses thought he knew he name. Unlike himself, he said nothing and allowed the young man to finish. Finally, he politely said thanks and promised to get back to him. Then he instructed Greta to find out anything she could about Jackie Richmond and his family.
The details she was able to unearth pleased him very much. That young man he had spoken with was indeed Jackie Richmond, the youngest of the three sons working with their father, Clive Richmond, a well-known business magnate.
Jackie was a serious man, then, with a concrete offer. He had sounded convincing, and Moses had long developed a bullshit detector and knew that he was telling the truth. He thought of what Jackie had told him and realized he had found that new tiding, the winning trump card he’d been looking for.
“It’s all about timing,” he muttered and took a few steps back to inspect himself in the mirror. He scrutinized his image from several angles and smiled again. His teeth glinted white against the background of artificial tanning. “Not bad, not bad at all.” He winked at the impressive figure wearing a blue buttoned shirt and pulled his jacket on. He had even worn a red tie today. “It’s important to look formal, presentable,” he asserted strongly.
With a smooth movement, he picked up and wore a baseball cap with the Order of the Prophet’s logo. The visor cast a shadow over the eyebrows. He looked perfect now.
“This is going to be your day!” He gave his own reflection a thumbs-up.
He looked outside through the window. Not far from there was the large billboard that until yesterday had called the city dwellers to the gathering at the City Tower. Those idiots from city hall had already started dismantling the billboard, even though he had specifically asked to keep it there for one more day.
The wall clock showed that he was fifteen minutes late. “Great. Let them wait for me.”
It was time. He opened the trailer door, just a crack, and a loud noise struck his ears. The intensity of the applause was astounding. In all his live performances he had never encountered anything remotely like it. Cameras flashed in front of his semi-open door. Greta stood waiting for him with a tense expression. He nodded at her. “Let’s get started.”
She motioned with her hand to someone, and the familiar jingle began at a deafening volume: “Because the Order of the Prophet beckons us all, come build a temple to harbor young and old.” The noise of the crowd intensified, accompanied by steady applause.
This was the moment Morse had been preparing for his whole life. He took a deep breath and grabbed one last look in the mirror. The impressive man in the suit winked at him encouragingly.
He waited for the jingle music to end, then opened the door. He stepped out into the blinding lights.
Thunderous applause sounded when the announcer called his name. Morse walked toward the stage waving his hand.
53
Thus Spoke the Prophet
“Incoming message.”
Paul’s cell phone vibrated again as he was slowly driving up highway 260, which bypassed the city. This was already the fifth message Matthew had sent him since morning. All the messages were exactly the same, reflecting his superior’s fervent tension.
Matthew: Any news???
He hated those three consecutive question marks. Such excesses weren’t necessary—he was well aware of the situation.
Half an hour before, he had called and updated Matthew, although no development had taken place: No, he was yet to locate David. Yes, he was aware of how critical the situation was. Yes, he perfectly realized David was his responsibility.
Paul checked every possible lead. He had to start by locating that gro
up of boys from school, headed by Jackie Richmond. He guessed that Richmond had something to do with David’s disappearance.
A few hours earlier he had sent Bill, a friend from the police intelligence unit, a list of names, and asked him to locate specific cell phone locations. David Robertson and Jackie Richmond were at the top of the list. So far, the boys’ cell phones had not been located.
Losing contact with David like that—it was truly unforgivable. Should he lose this rare position, he would be forced to leave the new apartment, thus exposing Kate and the girls to immediate danger. If a war broke and they found themselves without a nuclear shelter—he didn’t even want to think about it.
Matthew had said that the prophet had instructed to find David at any cost. This was the first time Matthew had openly admitted that it was the prophet himself who had hired Paul. It wasn’t a guess anymore: the prophet himself was personally looking out for David.
But that instruction wasn’t very helpful in carrying out the task: since the morning hours, Paul had done everything he could in order to locate David. Scouring every street of the city, battling the heavy traffic, the checkpoints, and the panicked masses.
It seemed as if the world had gone insane.
The radio stations carried disturbing updates: food and equipment stores were broken into, supermarkets and pharmacies were looted, armed people were taking over shelters.
“The enemy doesn’t need to attack. Looks like they’ve already won,” he muttered.
He remembered the words of Diane Colt, the FBI agent: “In a few hours, the U.S. will launch its strike, and may God help us all.”
For a brief moment, he felt the urge to take a U-turn, hurry back home, get Kate and the girls and go down into the shelter. If the world was indeed coming to an end, then to hell with everything, but he still had a few hours in which he could act. He had to make things right—he had to find the missing boy.
He sent Bill another message.
Paul: Any news?
Paul wasn’t in the habit of nagging people who were doing him a favor, especially on a day like this, when the police had to cope with such an extreme situation. But locating the boys’ cell phones was crucial.
A few seconds later, the impatient reply came through.
Matthew: When I’ll have any, you’ll be the first to know.
Paul sighed. What teenager didn’t walk around with his cell phone on? They must have removed the batteries from their devices.
He decided to drive to the one place he hadn’t checked yet, the SOS Pet Rescue shelter. David had a special affinity for the place. Paul knew that it was a shot in the dark, but he had to leave no stone unturned, even if the chances of finding something under it were slim.
He heard shouts down the road and slowed down. What looked like a giant circus tent towered in front of him. An improvised cardboard sign had been attached to a road sign by the road: “To the Order of the Prophet’s event.” Two ushers wearing phosphorescent coveralls directed him to a parking area.
“Oh well, what do I have to lose,” he stated out loud and navigated into the large parking lot. He drove as close as possible to the tent area and parked beside the green bus of a local hunters association.
“Morse has all sorts of admirers.” After a moment’s hesitation, he started the vehicle and drove to the furthest end of the parking lot. There, he stopped with the front of the car facing the exit and turned off the engine. A matter of experience, always park in a way that would allow a quick escape.
He exited his car and locked it, quickly walked toward the giant tent, and looked around. It appeared as though the event planners had expected a larger crowd. The tent was only about fifty percent full. People must be occupied with other, more important things, like saving themselves and their dear ones. His thoughts drifted to Kate and the girls again. Thank God they were in his apartment, right next to a modern shelter.
Powerful speakers suddenly played a cheerful jingle: “Because the Order of the Prophet beckons us all, come build a temple to harbor young and old.”
Paul drew closer to the edge of the tent and asked himself what was more ridiculous: the idea of building a temple to the prophet, or that ear-piercing jingle. The tune mercifully ended, and he heard a screeching whistle when a man took the microphone and announced: “I’m proud to call to the stage our leader, the one and only, President of the Order!”
The applause boomed as people rose to their feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Mr. Moses Morse!”
Paul headed inside the illuminated part of the tent. Numerous rows of plastic chairs were situated on the grass. Most of the back rows were empty. Paul sat in one of the chairs at the back. Two people wearing “Press” badges sat a short distance from him. One of them yawned.
Paul inspected the area. The organizers of the event had spared no expense. He tried to estimate the size of the crowd. Thousands of people. Numerous police officers were present to maintain order. He even saw four horse-mounted officers. It appeared as if Mr. Morse had all the right connections with the local police, seeing as he had been able to arrange such an impressive police presence at a time of crisis.
The main stage was far from where Paul was sitting. Behind it was a blue velvet curtain bearing the Order of the Prophet’s logo. Two giant screens, one on each side of the stage, showed an extreme close up of Morse as he went up and waved to the crowd. There was something unreal about the man’s good looks, his ridiculous tan, and his white-toothed smile.
“They should hand out earplugs at the entrance,” Paul muttered. The finishing chords of the Order’s famous jingle sounded, but the applause refused to die. Most of the crowd remained on their feet.
Morse straightened his gaze at his admirers and nodded gravely. His lips muttered a voiceless thank you. Paul noticed that there was something odd about his eyebrows. The star of the evening walked to the center of the stage and raised a hand, as if asking for silence. He shrugged as if surrendering to the love of his crowd. Two stagehands wearing earpieces came up to the stage with chairs, placing them in the center, next to Morse. He gave them a thankful nod.
A moment later, it seemed that he had decided to begin. He tapped the microphone with his finger and raised his hand again to ask for silence. This time people sat in their chairs and a relative silence ensued.
Moses took the microphone in his hand, took a small step forward and began to speak. “Friends, we’ve come a long way together...”
Deafening applause interrupted his words, but he raised his hand again and silence followed.
“We’ve gone through so much together. We were a scattered few, at first. People called us delusional, fanatics.” Loud boos followed. “But we never gave up. We believed in the way: the prophet’s way. Over time, more and more people were able to see the truth. The Order has gathered strength, power…” The applause resumed as Morse continued with his booming voice.
“Even the authorities now recognize the prophet, recognize us! Today, over thirty federal states and European countries recognize our Order as an official religion!”
The applause intensified into an uproar. Morse went on excitedly and raised a fist high in the air. “. Today, the Order numbers over one hundred thousand registered believers.”
Paul decided he’d had enough; time to go. He got to his feet and began to walk to the exit.
“Friends, I have an announcement to make.” Morse’s tone turned serious, which made Paul turn around and listen.
People hushed each other, and the applause died out. Morse paced on the stage with his head bent, like a man carrying a heavy load. He returned the microphone to the stand, grabbed it with both hands and sighed.
“In a minute, we’ll start with the interview that will be broadcast live worldwide.” He motioned to the camera crew toiling on the stage, directing cameras and installing microphones. �
��But first, I’d like to give you an important update… one that came straight from him.” He pointed a finger up.
An agitated rustle went through the crowd. “The prophet has updated me that contrary to the previously published schedule, he will not go live on the air tonight.”
Excited mutterings raced through the crowd. The two reporters beside Paul sat up in their chairs. The rustling sounds intensified, and Morse hurried to continue. “We are all aware of the sensitive situation our world is now faced with, and the prophet has a genuine responsibility for all of us. This is why he has asked me…” Loud screams ensued, and Morse stopped speaking and leaned forward, trying to hear what was shouted at him. He nodded and quietly answered the calls into the microphone, “Yes, that’s right. The prophet has asked me to speak in his name. He has asked me to give a message to you all.”
Morse directed his gaze straight into the camera and his face filled the giant screens. Paul couldn’t help but admire the man’s acting skills. He was undoubtedly born to be on the stage.
“I address all good citizens now watching me, but mainly you, the decision-makers.” He pointed at the nearest camera, closed his eyes with concentration, and raised a fist skyward.
With a tortured expression he cried out, “Thus sayeth the prophet: beware, you ministers of war, beware, you who hold a sword in your hand! Heed the words I speaketh unto you this day, for they shall continue to resound forevermore. Obey my commands and know that the wrath of the prophet is mighty, his vengeance bitter…” Cameras flashed and the crowd went wild. Morse looked as if he was in the middle of a trance. “Therefore, consider this my warning to you, you who control the deadliest of weapons: he who raiseth his hand to strike—I shall cut it down! He who sends forth his vessels of doom—death shall find him! These are the words I speaketh unto you, the words of the prophet.” His last words continued to echo for several seconds as he dropped his hands and lowered his head. The huge screens zoomed in on his shut eyes and flushed face.