by Glenn Kleier
Scotty thanked her, helped her to her feet, and walked her out into the hall and downstairs. Stopping at the bottom for fear someone outside might spot him through the foyer, he gave her a hug, waited till she was inside her apartment, crept to the rear exit, and slipped out.
An hour later he returned the way he’d left, having secured an advance on his winnings—at an outrageous rate. And settling in, he awaited an appearance from the mysterious Paraclete.
Chapter 28
Monday, October 20, 1:56 pm, Queens
Ivy leaped from the bus with her backpack, racing up the sidewalk toward her brother’s apartment, unable to contain herself. Scotty’s luck had finally turned. A trifecta. His texts said he’d been released from jail, won the lottery, and Herald had agreed to show himself!
How many millions he’d won, he hadn’t said, but Ivy ditched her last class, Pop be damned. She was coming to surprise Scotty, and hopefully in time to see Herald, too.
As she neared the apartment building, she braked. Hundreds of people glutted the street, including media with TV cameras.
“What’s going on?” she asked a bystander.
The man held a sign reading, Matt 15:30. “We’re here for the Prophet,” he told her.
She saw people in wheelchairs and on crutches, others carrying children with afflictions.
Frantically she dialed Scotty. No answer. How would she get past this mob?
Scotty paced his living room, seconds wearing slowly off the clock. The idea of meeting a supernatural being terrified him. Especially after it dawned on him, he couldn’t be certain which side of the spiritual divide Herald hailed from. Scotty had just reviewed all the epistles he’d been sent, only to realize that Herald had never actually declared himself an angel. A “Paraclete” was simply an “intercessor.” In fact, Herald never once referred to his Lord as “God.” And thinking back to when all this began, Scotty recalled being convinced he was dealing with an evil spirit.
Okay, yes, the Lord’s prophecies had all borne out, just like prophecies in the bible stories Mom used to read him. But as Scotty was aware from the same bible, evil forces also possessed prophetic powers. In the Acts of the Apostles, St. Paul confronted a woman who predicted the future—till Paul drove a demon out of her. And even now, nothing Scotty had experienced so far presented clear evidence Herald and his Lord were heaven-sent.
He watched Homer slink off to the bedroom. Had the cat sensed something? The knot in Scotty’s gut tightened. Would Herald appear on screen or in person? He paced, growing queasier with each step.
At last, the thunder growled, and Scotty jumped. He crept to his computer as if it were booby-trapped, seeing the videochat up and running like he’d left it, video-capture on to record all.
He sat, his insides coiled like a spring for the eternity it took the whine to come and go. Then the screen erupted in a blizzard of distortion, and he jumped again. The picture struggled to resolve, the transmission from the other side too brilliant. But quickly it adjusted and a hint of something began to organize in the chaos.
An iridescent shape. Head, upper torso. Humanoid. And then it materialized fully.
“Oh my God,” Scotty gasped.
A divine creature, without question. Radiant. Magnificent. Angelic. Sublime beyond anything Scotty had ever beheld. Unlike anything he’d dared imagine…
Ivy headed up the alley behind Scotty’s building, making for the rear door. No key, she tried Scotty’s phone again. It went to voice-mail again. She began pounding.
At length, a dark-haired woman with a wailing infant opened the door, glaring. “¿Qué?”
“Sorry, emergency,” Ivy muttered, bolting by, sprinting upstairs.
Scotty was slow to answer her thumping. And when he did, Ivy gasped. He was pale and sweaty, eyes wide and unseeing, lips quivering dumbly.
She cried, “Oh my God, oh my God—Herald appeared?”
Scotty nodded and Ivy whooped, slamming the door, brushing past. The room was a mess. The clock on the desk read 10:07.
“Online?” she asked.
Again he nodded, and she rushed to his computer, crushed to see a blank videochat window.
“Oh no, I missed it?”
Scotty drifted over, and she grabbed his arms. They hung lifeless. He gaped as if in a trance.
Finally, his lips formed words, a soft whisper. “Herald is the real deal all right. But not what we thought.”
Ivy couldn’t control her excitement. “You taped the videochat on your computer, yes?”
“Assuming spirits can be recorded. But I was warned, it’s for my eyes only.”
“Oh no. Herald owes me, I got busted, too. We won’t tell him.”
Scotty looked conflicted. Ivy could see he longed to share what he’d seen, and pulling him to his computer, she drew up a chair next to his. He still seemed uncertain. She continued to prod, and at last he exhaled, cued the video, and she leaned in for her first view of the cryptic Paraclete.
Too bright at first, and she squinted. But quickly an image began to coalesce. Like a star congealing out of hot gasses. Human—head, face, shoulders. Yet unlike any human Ivy had ever seen. Surreal. Ethereal. Surely not of this world.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. No question, an angelic creature. Stunning beyond anything Ivy had anticipated—albeit, she hadn’t known what to expect. More confused than ever, she whispered “This is Herald?”
Scotty didn’t answer. Ivy shot him a glance, hardly able to take her eyes off the screen. He appeared glazed-over again.
The vision was surreal, but one thing was clear. Herald was not male. Visible from the torso up, the Paraclete was a female of extraordinary grace and beauty. Young, with a glowing complexion. Literally. Skin radiant, luminous. So pale it was hard to distinguish her features. Hair white gold, woven into braids, wound ornately atop her head. Breasts full and nested in a gleaming white tunic.
But by far the most distinguishing characteristic, her eyes. Unlike any Ivy had ever seen. Vibrant silver jewels, penetrating to the soul. The woman sat amid dazzling cloud, appearing shy. Perhaps not used to mortals.
Ivy was spellbound, hearing Scotty’s voice on the video say, “I-I-I, I don’t understand. You are Herald?”
The woman responded in a soft lilt as sweet as her face. “I am a herald of the Lord.” Ivy detected a mild drawl. Angels had accents? “I bear His tidings.”
Scotty said, “Why me? I don’t want any tidings, I’ve got problems enough.”
“The Lord has His purpose.”
The woman lowered her eyes, and the sound of her delivery changed, turning eerily wooden.
“The Lord thanks you for the work you’ve performed and the sacrifices you’ve endured on His behalf. You are being prepared for a special role in a Divine Plan. Complete the Missions the Lord assigns you to His satisfaction, and you will be greatly blessed.”
She looked up. “I am now sending you instructions for your next undertaking. In the future, we will communicate only in writing.”
Scotty blurted, “The Lord’s messages are too confusing. If you want my help, we have to talk face-to-face. I insist.”
Ivy was surprised at Scotty’s pluck. The angel seemed surprised, too. She turned away as if searching for a response, then back. “Did you just receive my instructions? Are they not clear?”
There was a pause, and Ivy assumed Scotty was reading. Then she heard him moan, “A tornado? Oh my God—wh-what do I do?”
“It’s all there. Go to those in the media who made public your previous deeds. They know you speak truth. Rely on them to spread the word.”
“But the Lord’s the Lord. He can just stop the tornado Himself.”
“That’s not His way. You must not question.”
Scotty sputtered and dithered, and the angel said, “I must go.”
“But what if I have more questions?”
The video ended abruptly in a black screen.
Ivy sat stunned, heart beating wildly. She
turned to stare at Scotty. “Isn’t it possible to create special effects like these on a computer?” she asked. “Make someone look angelic?”
He exhaled slowly. “It’s not just her looks that make her credible. It’s her prophecies. There’s no computer in the world that can predict the things she does.”
Ivy couldn’t dispute that. “My God, we’re talking to an angel. A real, living angel!”
“Assuming she’s alive—in the conventional sense.”
Now Ivy felt glazed. She’d never actually believed in God, much less angels.
Scotty added, “She says a tornado’s coming. I’m supposed to warn people. But how? Who’ll believe me?” He showed Ivy the instructions the angel had sent. “The tornado’s not striking here, it’s Jasper, Georgia, wherever that is. At exactly thirty-three minutes past the 20th hour. 8:33 tonight.” He called up Google Maps on screen. “A little town north of Atlanta.”
“We’ve time to get a warning out on the six o’clock news.”
“So what do I do? Ring the doorbell at a TV station and yell ‘tornado?’”
Ivy pulled out a business card she’d received yesterday in an elevator at the police station.
“I’ve got a better idea…”
Part Two
Chapter 29
Thursday, October 4, 9:13 am
Talawanda, New York
Ariel Silva and Maxwell Bach paid heavyhearted farewells to their colleagues, carrying the last of their office belongings into the elevator. As they traveled down the control tower, they looked out through glass walls upon the valley they’d come to know so well. A magnificent view of endless cornfields abutting forested foothills and mountains sprinkled with early autumn. The old farmhouse was visible a few miles off.
But as they descended, a less-peaceful scene came into view.
At the edge of the parking lot stood thousands of angry protesters, restrained by a perimeter fence topped with razor wire. Behind them in a field were cars, tents, RVs, and TV trucks. More vehicles streamed in to choke the lone access road.
The protesters shook signs and yelled through the chain-link at a dozen fidgety security guards whose only weapons were tasers and liquid mace. With the collider’s inaugural run set to begin in less than an hour, the situation was sure to deteriorate.
The cause of the unrest lay two-hundred feet below the surface. A hundred-mile halo of mega-electromagnetic tunnel, circling off to the southeastern horizon and back, to meet itself directly beneath the tower. A new-generation synchrotron supercollider, vastly more powerful than any ever, about to undergo its maiden run—to the objections of demonstrators here and across the country.
Ariel had good reason to be afraid. On their way in this morning, crossing the picket line in Max’s vintage Mercedes, they’d faced a barrage of swearing, spitting, banging, and kicking. And no sooner had the guards squeaked them through the gate than Max leaped out of the car to curse the crowd, nearly causing a riot. No doubt the protesters hadn’t forgotten.
They exited the elevator at ground level, and Ariel begged Max, “Let’s wait for the state troopers.”
They’d heard the governor had called for reinforcements.
Max snorted. “The troopers hate us worse than the Dark Agers.”
He piled their things in the back seat, they jumped in the car, locked the doors, and headed for the gate. The mob spotted them, howling, rattling the fence, and the captain of security ran over. Max stopped and dropped his window.
“You got a death wish?” the captain cried, wiping his brow. “Sit tight, help’s coming.”
“No, it’s not,” Max shouted back. “And the longer we wait, the worse it’ll get.”
Ariel said nothing, petrified.
The man swore. “For all your brains, you ain’t got a lick a sense.”
“Open, or I’ll do it myself,” Max threatened, shutting the window, gunning the engine.
The captain swore and returned to his men. An argument ensued, but finally he stepped to the gate and ordered the crowd back. It didn’t budge. He punched numbers into a keypad, his men moved up raising their puny weapons, the gate shuddered and rolled aside, and Max pushed out into the fray. Ariel shrank in her seat, quaking. Once Max cleared the gate, it shut, and the crowd swarmed the car, screaming, thrusting signs at them that read:
TALAWANDA — Last stop at the end of the world
Doomsday Machine
Luke 23:34
A hulking, red-bearded man in a red-plaid shirt with cut-off sleeves pressed against Ariel’s window. She recognized him, a fixture here these last weeks. His arms bore Celtic tattoos, his pale eyes fierce with hate, thick lips in a snarl. She cringed closer to Max.
The man spit, “Deliver us from Evil.”
Max leaned across Ariel to shout back, “Wanna escape the black hole? Get your head outta your ass.”
The man went livid, and Ariel felt faint. Had Max skipped his Valpro today? She tried to push him back to the wheel, his shoulder rigid as a gnarl of wood.
“Please,” she cried.
Max straightened and budged them ahead, and Ariel watched the red-bearded man recede. He targeted her with his finger like a pistol.
The past days had been tense, but the crowd was never this large or ugly, emotions peaking with the Big Moment at hand. A moment physicists the world over had awaited for the decade it took to construct the massive collider. A moment Ariel, Max, and their roommates had devoted their souls to since taking research positions here three years ago. And now, sadly, would miss.
They cleared the melee at last, and Ariel released her breath, turning to ensure they weren’t followed, bidding her career goodbye. She stared misty-eyed past the control tower to the valley beyond. No hint of the vast machinery underground, the extraordinary event about to take place.
The Talawanda Particle Collider promised to unlock secrets of the universe. But opposition had sprung up in the past year over fears it would spawn a catastrophe—a black hole to swallow the Earth. Baseless fears stoked by a right-wing political movement calling itself the “New Enlightenment.” Ariel and colleagues knew them better as “Dark Agers,” a mixed bag of anti-science, anti-intellectuals intent on plunging the nation into a black hole of a different kind.
Max swung onto the highway, accelerating past fields of blanched cornstalks.
“Slow down,” Ariel reminded. State troopers liked to sidle up in the rows and lay for TPC workers. Max had gotten tickets before.
“Deliver us from Evil,” he bellowed, backing off the gas.
In fact, Max had already found his deliverance. No sooner had he gotten his notice than he’d nabbed a comparable position at another collider in Europe, where the environment was less hostile to science. No such luck for Ariel and their roommates, Tia Diego and Stanley Bronkowski, who were pursuing their careers stateside. With the cutbacks in federal funding, the field of quantum physics offered dismal prospects. TPC would have been shut down entirely if not for international agreements made long ago.
Though the four were invited to attend today’s inaugural run, they’d declined in a protest of their own, too upset to taste the fruits of their labors only to leave them behind. This morning while Tia and Stan packed up the house, Max and Ariel had tackled their offices. Tomorrow they’d go their separate ways.
A few miles later, not far from the town of Talawanda, Max turned into a gravel drive marked by a rusted mailbox and “for rent/sale” sign. Sixty feet back from the road sat a one-story frame farmhouse, white paint yellowed and peeling. Behind was a barn and open pasture. A sheep ranch before the economy tanked.
There was a large oak in the front yard. Past that, a doghouse. And tethered to the doghouse, Newton, the piebald mutt Ariel had adopted soon after moving here. He spotted her and his tail went like a windshield wiper. It gave her a needed lift.
Max parked behind four u-haul trailers and exited, leading Ariel past stacks of boxes and furniture to where Tia and Stan were ferrying a tabl
e from the porch.
At the sight of Tia, Ariel’s eyes welled again. The little big sister she’d never had, and would miss most. Second-generation Ecuadoran, five-two (in heels), olive skin, dark eyes, chopped hair with pink highlights. If not for Tia, Ariel would have been lost her first year here, and likely never would have found herself.
Stan, she loved like an eccentric big brother. Tall, thin, disheveled brown hair. Easy-going, and a marvelous mind. But watching him navigate the steps with Tia and table was a fright—all elbows and knees, wire-rim glasses migrated to the tip of his beaked nose.
“Hey-o,” he puffed, looking up. “How’d it go?”
“Ugly,” Max said, taking over for Tia. “Barbarians at the gates.”
Stan loathed the Dark Agers as much as Max, if less vocal about it. But Tia’s hatred burned hottest of all. She’d recently had a scrape in town, narrowly escaping, still raw from it.
“Assholes,” she snapped in her elfish voice.
The men set the table by other furniture and followed the women inside to finish packing, everyone to their respective bedrooms. Ariel’s was at the back left corner. One window looked out onto the drive, the other across rolling pasture and hills to the north. An idyllic vista familiar to her as the face of an old friend, far removed from the Stepford Wives community of her upbringing. All that remained in her room was her bed, some overnight essentials, and a few boxes of books and clothing. The rest sat outside by her trailer, ready to load.
Inhaling, she grabbed a box and carried it down the hall, her thoughts turning to the long drive ahead. At least she’d have Newton for company. But as she pushed open the porch door, heading down the steps, she heard him yelping and lurching against his chain. She hadn’t given him much attention lately with all the hubbub.
Max’s voice carried out a window, “Shut that damned dog up!”
Ariel grumbled and detoured for Newton—only to brake, overcome by a strange sensation. Head spinning, she lost hold of the box and sent it and books cartwheeling across the lawn.
The spell passed as quickly as it came, and Ariel checked her phone. 10:00 AM.
