Into Captivity They Will Go

by Milligan, Noah;

  Scoot’s mother was weeping. Her hands covered her face.

  “I’m sorry,” Caleb said. “I thought—I still believe …”

  “Stop,” he said. “No more lies. No more empty promises. I want you to look at me straight. I want you to tell my wife the truth. My son. Your friend. I want to hear you say you lied to us.”

  “I didn’t lie. I really thought—”

  “We disobeyed the doctor’s orders. They could’ve been saved. We could’ve beaten this. We believed you.”

  “I know,” Caleb said. “I’m sorry. I thought what we were doing was right. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  Scoot’s father sat back down, scratching his neck and face until he bled. He no longer had any faith. He stared at nothing. There was this glaze over his eyes, like an opaque film marred his vision. He’d lost hope. He’d lost his belief in God, and in its place remained an emptiness, a barren cavity his soul had once filled, and Caleb knew he’d caused this. Nothing like this ever would’ve happened if he and his mother hadn’t come here. They were the reason this man and his wife no longer carried any hope. They were the reason they’d lost faith in God, and there was nothing, Caleb knew, that could remedy this.

  THAT NIGHT, CATHERINE WOKE CALEB. It was dark out, even darker in the service hall, all the candles having been extinguished hours before. The room resounded with faint snores, a collective breathing from the congregation, spurting in odd and uneven intervals.

  “We’re leaving,” she said.

  Caleb’s head was fuzzy, still lethargic from sleep, and so he didn’t answer her, instead rubbing his eyes, waiting for them to adjust.

  “Brandon and me. Mom and Dad. We’re taking Scoot with us.”

  Caleb had been dreaming about playing baseball back in Bartlesville. He was playing second base, and it was an important game, the championship game. The stadium lights were bright, and the stands were filled with faceless fans, dozens of them, maybe a hundred, all of them riled and raucous. They screamed obscenities and shook the chain-link fences. Caleb was scared, but none of his teammates or the opposing players were bothered by them, and so he took his position, slapped his glove, and readied for the pitch.

  “Come with us,” Catherine said. “Please.”

  The pitcher was a mountain of a kid, tall, skinny as a pencil, his torso curved, arms long, elbows bent too low. He had no features. He vibrated in pixels, dark and churning like a thundercloud. When he threw the ball, it came out like fire, and the hitter swung and connected, launching a rocket of a groundball in Caleb’s direction. He moved his feet to get in front of it, timing his steps to field it on a good hop, but before it reached him, it struck a pebble and ricocheted high and to his left. He couldn’t adjust in time, and the ball struck his shoulder, showering sparks and marking his jersey in black soot. The ball dribbled away from him, and the batter reached first safely. The crowd became enraged, cussing and pointing their fingers.

  “I can’t,” Caleb said.

  “Sure you can,” Catherine said. “Just get up and walk out the door.”

  The next batter came to the plate, and the runner took his lead off first base. Caleb cheated toward second base a little to get into double-play position. The dark, giant pitcher came set and then delivered a fastball. The hitter made contact and chopped it off the plate. The flaming ball bounced high into the air and over the pitcher’s head. Caleb charged the ball and tried to field it as it descended, but he couldn’t make it in time, and the ball short hopped off his knee. Runners on first and second, both errors committed by Caleb. The crowd grew angrier. They seethed. They called him out by name.

  “I can’t leave my mom.”

  “Please, Caleb. This is getting out of hand. It’s getting dangerous. Please come with us.”

  The next batter dug in and on the first pitch roped a line drive toward Caleb. It came at him so fast he didn’t have time to react. He didn’t have time to blink, and he raised his glove to grab it, but it just burned a hole straight through his glove and through his chest until all that remained was a simmering hole. But there wasn’t any pain. None at all. The heat and the wind flowed through him, and the runner on second rounded third and was on his way home. The crowd yelled for him to get the ball, get the ball, throw it home, but he couldn’t find it. He looked behind him and there was nothing, just a vast, endless right field. The runner scored, and Caleb’s team lost and the crowd became furious. They threw rocks. They foamed at the mouth. They climbed the fence and were coming for Caleb.

  “You have to, Caleb. You have to. We’re all going to die if we stay here. Please.” She grabbed Caleb’s hand and tugged. “Please. I’m begging you. Just come with us.”

  The funny thing was, Caleb didn’t even try to run from them. He stood his ground and waited. He dropped his glove into the dirt and raised his arms and turned his face toward the deep, black sky, and when the first one reached him and grabbed his collar, Caleb didn’t fight back.

  “I’m sorry,” Caleb said. “I can’t leave my mother.”

  HALF THE CONGREGATION LEFT WITH the Finches. The rest remained in the service hall, the room dimly lit by candles. They were tired, unable to sleep or bathe. The room filled with the stench of sweat and body odor. No longer did they carry with them a resolute confidence. They’d lost. And they knew it. Caleb could see it in the way they avoided eye contact, instead staring at their feet, the ceiling, the landscape outside the windows they once called home.

  Caleb’s mom and Sam were as disheveled as the rest of the congregation. Sam hadn’t shaved in weeks, and scraggly facial hair covered his chin and near his sideburns, his cheeks still noticeably bare. His hair curled away, clumped together by grease, making him appear childlike despite his wrinkled and dark features, his overgrown nose hair and bushy eyebrows. He doubled over in pain from the gunshot wound. Mired in his expression was a mixture of fear, anger, confusion, and angst. But not Caleb’s mom. Despite her haggard appearance, bones pushing out her flesh like tent poles, she maintained an air of resolution. Despite all that had happened, she remained steadfast in her convictions.

  “Remember Job,” she said to the congregation. The ones who had the strength sat in the pews. The sick mostly slept in the aisles, moaning under their fever and delirium. “He was a pious man, a man of God. He had bountiful fields and oxen, seven sons and three daughters. He was a blessed man. He prayed and he tithed and he devoted himself to the Lord, but the devil, undeterred, made a bet with God. He said, ‘See that man right there; he has lived a pious life, a fulfilled life, a life blessed with riches and family. That is why he is a pious man. That is why he praises You, because You have made him rich. Take that away, and he will curse Your name. You watch, God. Watch and learn. Man is a selfish lot. He is a greedy lot. Take away from them all they hold dear, and they will turn away from You.’

  “God accepted the devil’s bet, and the devil, pleased and confident, went to the earth, and he burned Job’s fields. He killed Job’s oxen, his sheep. He killed Job’s sons, his daughters, and when Job learned of all his losses, he praised the Lord. He said the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He did not sin. He prayed, and he revered the Lord. ‘See,’ the Lord told the devil, ‘See my son Job. He is an upright man, a good man, a godly man,’ and the devil replied, ‘Yes, take away a man’s riches, his family, he will still love the Lord, but touch a man’s own flesh, and he will curse Your name.’ And so the devil returned to the earth, and he plagued poor Job with leprosy. His skin boiled and ruptured, turned malignant and sour. Even Job’s wife turned on him, mocked him for still revering God, laughing at his piety, his conviction and determination. But Job did not relent. He still loved the Lord. Despite all that happened, he remained loyal to God, and with this, the Lord was pleased.

  “Hearing about his plight, Job’s neighbors visited him. Three came, but they didn’t even recognize Job. For seven days and seven nights they sat with Job as he suffered until finally Job spoke, and they debated Job’s plig
ht. They argued as to whether Job’s punishment was justified, on what he could do to win favor once again with God, but Job disregarded their advice. He remained silent until finally claiming his friends false. Man cannot understand God’s intentions through worldly righteousness or wickedness. Man’s gains or losses have no bearing on the divine. Only God gives and only God takes away, and Man is unfit to know why. God acts for his own purpose, his alone, and does not consider Man’s wishes or wants. Whether he be rich, poor, old, wise, powerful, or wicked, it is God’s will, and Man shall not question the Lord.

  “Then God showed himself to Job, and Job revered his God, and the merciful God provided twice as much as before. The Lord gave unto Job thousands of oxen, of sheep, his fields and his family. Job went on to live 140 years, and it was written that Job will rise again with those whom the Lord raises up, all because he remained faithful and obedient.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, THE FBI raided the service hall. They sent in a dozen armed agents and twice as many National Guard soldiers. The FBI agents wore bulletproof vests and carried semi-automatic handguns, some of them approaching the door with a battering ram, and the National Guard carried M-16 rifles and were in full combat gear. It was when they started to beat down the door that Caleb became aware of them. Sam, Caleb, and his mother hurried the remaining members of the congregation who were well enough upstairs to the storage room. The sick they left downstairs. They begged to be carried, to be helped, but there wasn’t enough time. They barricaded the door with boxes and unused bricks and lumber, and they waited. They waited for God to come. They waited for him to tell them they’d done the right thing. They waited until they heard a loud crash from downstairs.

  Caleb’s mother moved to the window and looked down.

  “Get a gun,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Do what I say!”

  She grabbed a handgun. She checked the clip to make sure it was loaded, and then she pointed the barrel out the window. Caleb waited for her to fire, but she didn’t right away. She was mumbling something, and she kept jarring the barrel from one target to the next like she couldn’t decide whom to shoot first.

  Then she looked back at Caleb. “Get your gun. There’s no time to waste.”

  “We’ve gone too far,” Caleb said. “We’ve gone too far. We’ve gone too far. We’ve gone too far.”

  “Pull yourself together, Caleb. I’m counting on you.”

  She turned back to the window and fired. Caleb couldn’t see it, but he knew people were getting hurt. He knew people were getting shot. He knew people were dying—he could hear their screams when they were hit, and each one made it feel as though he were being stabbed in the chest, and he couldn’t help but think this was his fault. All of it. Every last bit.

  “They’re dead, Mom. All those people downstairs. All of us up here. They’re dead. Sam’s going to die. Me and you. It’s all our fault. Don’t you see that?”

  “These people need us. We’re saving them. Not hurting them. Please tell me you understand that.” She put down her gun and placed her hands on Caleb’s cheeks. “Please tell me you know we’re saving their souls.”

  “We’re going to die, Mom.”

  “And we will be welcomed into the kingdom of heaven.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. You said—”

  “I know what I said.”

  She grabbed ahold of Caleb’s wrists and she shook him. She put her face right up against his, her eyes a vein-ribbed red, and said, “Sometimes terrible things happen. And you just have to get right back up and walk it. Do you understand me?”

  She looked deranged. She looked like she’d snapped. Eyes bugged. Hair disheveled. Her face and neck and forearms scratched up. She looked scared, too, like she didn’t know what might happen next, and for the first time in his life, Caleb was scared of her.

  “We’ve got to turn ourselves in.” Caleb tried to get up, but she pushed him back down. “We have to make this stop.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare do that to me.”

  Something exploded, followed by a bright flash. Caleb looked outside and saw a ball of light streaking up into the sky like a flare. It looked like a shooting star, and for a moment everything was peaceful, serene even. There was just the flare illuminating the sky, making it so bright as to drown out the stars behind it, and there appeared to be a halo over the worship hall, a celestial glow burning bright and cascading down in emblazoned embers, and he thought everything might be okay. Maybe it was all over, and he and his friends might live. But then came pounding on the door. The congregation cried and screamed and begged for help, and Caleb’s mother turned from the window. She reloaded her gun and pointed it at the noise. More pounding. The door buckled and splintered, bending away from its hinges. Caleb’s mother tightened her grip and fired. She fired at Mr. Goldsby. Then Mrs. Goldsby. Then their twin sons, Devon and Luke. She shot Barbara Eggleston and Peyton Wouk, Martin Sanders and Mary Atler. All of them were pleading with her, begging her, “No, please, don’t, spare me!” But she didn’t. She shot one after another after another until the trigger clicked. Finally, the door gave way, and gas canisters were launched inside.

  Caleb was surprised at first, frozen in a state of shock. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. His eyes stung, and tears streamed down his face. There was nothing but gray, stinging haze. He could taste the smoke. It tasted like sulfur and smelled even worse. He could hear screaming. A high-pitched panicked scream. A deep scream full of fear. A loud moan from Sam, like he needed to make noise to convince himself he was still alive.

  Another explosion sounded. Caleb couldn’t pinpoint the source, but he heard more yelling, commands this time, screaming to get down, get down, “Get on your hands and knees, motherfuckers,” followed by the stampede of heavy boots and, finally, the volley of machine-gun fire. And then he felt heat, then smoke. Someone had set a fire. Caleb dropped to the ground, and it burned hot and it burned bright, and he knew there was no way to get out safely. He panicked, and he thought this was it—this truly was the end of times.

  He’d have thought there’d be some sort of acceptance or serenity in this realization. He’d find calm, and St. Peter would greet him at the gates of heaven, and standing next to him would be Scoot and Brandon and Catherine and Sam and his father and his brother and his mother, and they’d all be happy and free from sin, free from pain and suffering and the bitter angst that buried him under the blackest of soil, but that wasn’t what happened. There was just sheer and utter panic. He was scared, and he was distraught—he was going to die, and he still hadn’t yet made peace with God.

  As the National Guard made it deeper into the room, his mother tried to shield him. She somehow managed to find him in the smoke and the confusion, and she pushed him to the ground and lay on top of him. Her body was heavy, and her weight bore down on Caleb, making it hard for him to breathe. He coughed, and he choked, the smoke and the ash and the heat crawling deep inside of him, filling his lungs until there wasn’t any more room for oxygen, and she kept saying something over and over and over, repeating the same syllables in a hushed and hurried whisper above his ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  THE BOOK OF REVELATION

  CHAPTER 1

  I WAS RELEASED FROM THE JUVENILE DETENTION center when I was eighteen years old. The FBI gave me a new name, Billie Booker, a new social security number, five hundred dollars, and told me I could move anywhere I wanted. I didn’t have anyplace to go to—I didn’t know where my father and brother were at, and the authorities told me not to look for them anyway, for their safety and mine. I didn’t have any friends to speak of. The congregation had, of course, long ago disbanded, the survivors having lost faith in us and in themselves and in the God we’d preached to them. I had nothing and nowhere, and so I chose Oklahoma City. The FBI tried to get me to move out of state, but I refused. Having never left the state of Oklahoma, I was too scared to, incapabl
e of taking on even more of the unknown when I was so uncertain in myself.

  Oklahoma City was a nice place with nice people and nice homes and nice dogs and hand-painted wooden advertisements and mega churches. People drove Ford F-150s and wore plaid shirts and Wrangler jeans and polo shirts to work. On Saturday mornings it smelled of donuts and gasoline. The wind blew so hard it stung the eyes, and it was bigger than any place I’d ever lived. Though a small city compared to Chicago or New York or L.A., there were people everywhere. They went for walks and shopped for new tires and commuted to work, and although I didn’t know a soul there, I never felt alone. I always felt in the presence of people, and I found comfort in that—when I was eighteen and scared and unsure what I would do with my life, how I would live, how I would support myself, how I would find my next meal or a roof over my head or someone I could confide in, it was enough. It was familiar enough to give me confidence in being on my own, but different enough I could start over. I think the hardest thing to get used to was the new name. Billie Booker. Billie Booker. It just sounded foreign in my mouth, tripping over my tongue. The first thing I did when I was released was go to a Conoco station just down the road and stand in the bathroom for an hour, just standing there in front of the mirror, repeating, “I am Billie Booker. I am Billie Booker. I am Billie Booker.” But no matter how many times I said it, I couldn’t quite get myself to believe it.

  I used a part of the five hundred bucks to put a deposit down on an apartment and looked for a job. Inside juvie, counselors had taught me some life skills, how to cook and clean and balance my checkbook. I learned how to stamp license plates and pick up trash on the side of the road. An electrician came in to teach us how to wire a house and repair small appliances, but most of the time he just read magazines and didn’t teach us a thing. I did get my GED, and I was proud of that, but I really didn’t have any valuable skills. I couldn’t weld or carpenter. I couldn’t read a balance sheet or design detailed blueprints. I was an unskilled laborer, and I was okay with that. I found solace in what this entailed, mainly anonymity. I would be a product or service, a barista or mailman or carpet cleaner, not Caleb, the false prophet, the leader of a cult, a murderer.