The Fallen and the Elect

by Jerry J. K. Rogers

  * * * *

  Michael considered the day a complete waste. Going through the journals, logs, and other church records revealed nothing more than a scattering of previously seen information.

  As he headed out into the streets, the late fall air bathed somber warmth upon his face. The cloudless sky was lifeless, quiet and the air stagnant and dense with unseasonable humidity, which made running strenuous. This added to the frustration he was beginning to feel again questioning why he had agreed to work on this investigation. Maybe he really did want to spend time with Sister Justine again. He had challenged her to leave the Church after the mass disappearance of family, friends, and even some professional antagonists who was against him while in seminary that held a more rigid evangelical fundamental view of their beliefs. But Justine, after coming to grips with the situation, took it as another test of faith. When she had to decide between God and Michael, her decision was to take a pledge to the Church and commit to her vows. To see her after nearly ten years, Michael thought any emotional attachments had been chased out by other distractions in his life, so the intensity of the current relationship took him by surprise.

  As he ran through the distinct and unfamiliar neighborhoods, the setting sun barely reflected in the dirty windows of homes and small stores. The aromas of evening meals being prepared, tortillas warming, corn roasting, a fragrance resembling black beans in molasses based sauce simmering with the pungent spices of peppers, cilantro, and onions, all pierced his concentration forcing him to focus on his own growing hunger. When Michael did force himself to concentrate on the information he and the team had come across, memories of his visit here with Sister Justine ten years earlier came up in force. He also reflected on the odd visit of the mysterious woman on the bench, bewildering and vague with her comments before disappearing from their view.

  Michael was coming up to the turnaround point in his run, and the more he debated whether remaining in Mexico would be of benefit, the more he felt it was a useless trip. The church in El Refugio revealed nothing. He dismissed the issue with Ashere as a red herring. The notes, journals, logs, and other paperwork the three looked at refreshed memories of his earlier notes and information long missing. However, there was nothing new revealed to help identify what had happened down in Mexico or up in Los Angeles. The only commonality coming to mind was the single survivor and witness in both cases. Thinking more about it, the first time they talked to Stephen in Los Angeles, the more Michael determined that the interrogation had been superficial. All Stephen told them was exactly what the newspapers had reported.

  Just as surprising to Michael was how well the change of the postmortem condition of all the deceased in the incidents in Los Angeles had been kept from the media. Still not sure if he wanted to continue with Father Hernandez and Sister Justine once they returned to Los Angeles, Michael did feel an urge to determine if angels do exist as spiritual beings to be accepted with one’s own belief. After coming down the first time, and then being recalled before he could conclude about what happened, he felt as if the truth of what happened had been stolen along with his notes from the visit. If he did continue with the research and investigation, to get a sense of closure they would need to talk to Stephen again. A bonus would be the rich gravy of information to augment his religious studies program at the college.

  At his turnaround point, Michael decided to take a different route back to the church. Activity on the streets was becoming sparse. He navigated down a street of rustic homes that looked like a good shortcut back to his temporary residence. Michael noticed an eerie silence blanketing the neighborhood. No children were playing, no bicyclists riding, no cars moving, no small food carts and vendors like in other streets. The noise of his feet pounding the crumbling pavement was the only sound echoing in his ears. At times Michael thought he heard another set of footsteps as if someone were running in unison behind him. Turning his head around while still jogging, no one was there. After several more yards, the reflective sound of feet pounding the ground behind him recurred. He turned around again; no one was there.

  The receding sun created a multitude of shadows from the homes, parked cars, trees, bushes, and trashcans, which Michael thought were playing tricks on his eyes. Movement at the end of the street took shape as a large, murky mass with multiple legs. Slowing down, Michael looked intently and comprehended the obscure form transforming into a pack of dogs moving in his direction. Then a large brown and black German Shepherd, a smaller grey German Shepherd, two Rottweilers, one black, one black and brown, and two black mid-sized Doberman Pinschers started to emerge from the ambiguous cluster. Michael stopped to grab a couple of rocks, not sure they would be of any benefit, and calculated different escape scenarios. Should he run up to a door hoping to find it unlocked or, if locked, would knocking allow time for someone to come to his aid? The vehicles parked along the road were small and scarce and if he climbed on top, the menacing dogs could jump. The trees were only adolescent saplings that wouldn’t allow him to climb, let alone support his 185 pounds. Only two full-grown trees looked as if like they could provide adequate support for climbing, but of course, they were between him and the dogs.

  With no provocation, the dogs saw Michael, snarled, and broke into an immediate charge. This is not good, he thought, his previous planning useless as his instincts overwhelmed him. Michael turned and tried to run but tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground. Trying to stand back up and run, his legs frozen from fear, he looked down the street to see the distance between the barking dogs and himself shrinking. The dog leading the pack by nearly ten feet, a Doberman, pounced and leaped. Michael shut his eyes and turned, instinctively putting his arms over his head to protect himself. Instead of feeling his flesh torn by the attacker’s teeth, he felt a blast of air followed by a whooshing sound above him as if someone had swung a huge racket or bat. It was then, after hearing a massive thud followed by a dog’s yelp, that Michael looked up to see the Doberman rolling down the street toward the pack. Astounded, Michael saw the remaining dogs turn their heads away from him. Their charging stopped. Their barking stopped. They laid down panting only 12 feet from him. The dogs looked to be obeying a command to halt and stay.

  Michael turned around; for an instant, he thought he saw a tall robed figure silhouetted in the piercing brilliance of the descending sun, yet its radiance obscured his sight. In an instant, his eyesight adjusted to the flood of light; no one was there. He turned back to check the dogs; all were static, breathing heavily, except the Doberman, who was crawling back to the pack in submission. Michael slowly raised himself to his feet and took a step back. The dogs remained motionless. Once he added another 20 feet to the distance between him and the dogs, they finally stood up. With the black Rottweiler snarling, the pack turned and ran away from Michael down the road. Backtracking and detouring over a couple of blocks, Michael resumed his original route to complete his jog.