The Armageddon Prophecy

by Raymond Finkle

  “No, not recently. We find that once people commit to a life of righteousness before God, they almost never go back to the outside world.”

  “Are people allowed to leave?” Emily asked

  “Of course, Deputy. Our members can come and go as they please. But they rarely have need to go into town, as you know. Most of my flock likes to stay here… I even joke that they are students, and they like it here, ‘on campus.’ It is like a school, in many ways. We are constantly learning about God’s plan. But anyone can leave at any time, of course. From time to time someone will organize an outing into Hawk Claw, but not often.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Reverend…”

  “Please, Deputy. We have no secrets here.” Emily paused for a moment. She felt a slight chill.

  “If that’s true, Reverend, then why the security? I mean… that wall is rather… dramatic, isn’t it? If people can come and go, why is the wall necessary?”

  “Well, I would think you would know—it’s for our security, of course. It isn’t to keep people in, Deputy. It’s to keep people out. I must admit that… as much as we would like it to be otherwise, the Messianic Cathedral of Penance is rather untrusting of the outside world. And not without reason. We’ve had incidents in the past, mind you—where our children have been ostracized, or worse. The impetus for moving here was when the founder was practically driven out of Nevada in the 1980’s, as I’m sure you know.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she said. At that, the Reverend spent a minute rummaging around his office. He produced two pamphlets which he handed to her. One of them looked familiar—she had seen something similar while perusing the web. It outlined what life was like in the MCP. It talked about the MCP’s commitment to God and the importance of being humble. It had several biblical references and a section that outlined ‘Daily schedule for life in the MCP’—Individual prayer ; Breakfast ; Bible study ; Group worship ; Lunch ; Scholarly studies ; Community Service ; Group worship ; Dinner ; Nightly Sermon ; Individual prayer and Lights out.

  Each time slot on the schedule listed two times—as in, Individual Prayer – 6 a.m./3 p.m., Breakfast – 7 a.m./4 p.m. and so forth. Emily asked the Reverend about this discrepancy. He answered, “The founder likes to run on the same schedule as Jerusalem. The idea is that, while we cannot physically be there, we are all spiritually in the same place. So, on the pamphlet we’ve listed local times as well as the corresponding time in the Holy city.”

  Emily nodded. “I see,” she said.

  It appeared to be a recruiting pamphlet that outlined what anyone thinking of joining the MCP could expect. It was clear that there was a rigorous level of commitment expected. She flipped through the other pamphlet, detailing the history of the MCP, while the Reverend continued to talk.

  “The founder came here in 1988. He was from Las Vegas, and he found that the corruption of the soul ran deep there. He moved here and immediately knew he had found someplace special. When he bought this land, he could barely afford the down payment, and the initial plot was 20 acres of unfarmable scrub brush. But he persisted, and built a small home, and eventually, he made everything you see here. His influence grew and before the turn of the Century he had established the MCP as a church of international influence. He has regular meetings with other spiritual leaders, including the Pope. We believe that one day Catholicism and the other wayward sects will fold into the MCP. We believe it is destiny… only a matter of time.” Emily had to stop herself from snickering. She thought, Did he just say that they’re going to take over the Catholic Church?

  “But… there are millions of Catholics, Reverend.”

  “Exactly. And someday soon, they will realize the error of their ways. They are not wrong, you see—they are merely misguided.”

  “I see,” she said, with poorly concealed disbelief, “Reverend, what can you tell me about these?” She held up another picture for him. Her phone displayed the clothes of the young victim, which Emily had laid out on a table in the hospital. They had been the only possessions found on the woman—no wallet, no jewelry, and no phone. Emily was showing the Reverend a picture of simple brown clogs, a white blouse, a heavy long brown pair of leggings, and a grey woolen cloak. It was all very plain. Emily had inspected it all—there were no tags or identifying marks. The pants were a brown denim material, like loose fitting jeans. The blouse was heavy cotton. The whole ensemble looked homemade.

  “Yes,” he said, “That’s certainly manufactured by the MCP.” She was amazed to hear him say this.

  “You’re certain?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “We manufacture hundreds of similar garments right here every year. They are all made by hand, using materials that, as much as possible, we produce ourselves—we shear the sheep to make wool and import raw cotton that we turn into fabric. In any case, I’m sure these came from the MCP, but I don’t know how this young lady got ahold of them.”

  “So, does everyone here wear a uniform like this?”

  “Oh no, it’s not a uniform, per se. As you can see, we permit other forms of garb to be worn.” He motioned to his own shirt and tie—it was a plain white collared shirt and a black tie with the symbol of the MCP embroidered on it. Emily recognized the figure from her online research. The symbol of the MCP was a snake, in the shape of a circle, eating its own tail. There were eight ‘little snakes’ going through the circle, intersecting in the middle. Online they referred to their symbol as the ‘chrysalis.’

  Emily had read about that, too. A chrysalis was the shell that a caterpillar forms, the cocoon that it goes into before coming out later as a moth or butterfly. She wondered what it was supposed to symbolize here—Transformation?

  She knew from her research that the image of the circular snake eating itself was called the ouroboros. It was an ancient symbol that was felt to symbolize rebirth. This made sense—the chrysalis, or cocoon, would also symbolize rebirth, she supposed. She thought that they might have a similar theology to born-again Christians—not that she really knew what that was—but perhaps once you join the MCP, you have been reborn. She didn’t know. But something about the snake eating its own tail and the eight snakes that divided up the rest of the circle unnerved her. She wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean, but she felt that she was missing something.

  “But you’re sure what she was wearing was an MCP… ummm… outfit?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, Deputy. There’s no mistaking it. Unless someone decided to counterfeit our clothing. Which hardly seems likely—I mean, we’re not exactly Armani, are we?” He laughed softly at his own joke while Emily shuddered slightly. She had initially warmed to Reverend Thompson, with his gentile ways and polite mannerisms. But suddenly she felt very differently about his affectations.

  “If she isn’t an MCP member, where could she have gotten these clothes?” she asked him.

  “Well, it really wouldn’t be too hard. The easiest way would be to buy them. We do sell them to outsiders—clothes, and raw materials like wool, and food—especially vegetables. I’m sure you’ve seen our farm stands at the organic market in Hawk Claw from time to time.”

  “Are the clothes sold in stores?”

  “No. But they could be bought at a farm stand. And there could be wholesale, direct to market sales—from time to time, we get inquiries. I would have to look in our manufacturing records to see if there have been any recent sales.”

  “Could we go there now? I would love to have a look around. I noticed on the web that you have some kind of industrial operations—and warehouses? It’s hard to make out from the pictures because they aren’t very detailed.”

  “Well, we have several warehouses—we keep supplies for the winter in bulk. We have coal, and large quantities of firewood, as well as peat moss, for our members to burn. We believe in old fashioned technology, so to speak.”

  “But what about the planes?” she asked. “I noticed one landing as I arrived just n
ow. That’s not very old fashioned.”

  He laughed in his strange, mirthless way again. “No,” he said, “That is not old fashioned. We have several planes that are used to bring in raw supplies, sometimes from far away—and we find it is often cheaper to do so then to have it trucked in. Of course, most of the materials are brought in by ground—but to tell the truth, Mr. Burke is a pilot, and he likes to get up in the air from time to time. It’s an indulgence, really, but we need the raw materials brought in somehow. I’m looking forward to the day when we have enough farmland to be self-sustaining, but I’m afraid it isn’t here yet.”

  “I see,” she said, “Well, it certainly is amazing, Reverend. Your entire compound is like a miniature world. I would like very much to see the warehouses, and the airplanes? If that’s possible?”

  “I’m sorry, but not today, Deputy.”

  “But couldn’t we just go to where the clothes are made, and I could see your manufacturing? Maybe there is a record of the sale that will help me track down who this woman was. I won’t disturb anything.”

  “Oh. No, I’m sorry, Deputy. We can’t do that now. It’s nearly one o’clock.”

  “I apologize. I’m very tired. What happens at one o’clock?”

  “Lunch is almost over. You see, as an elder, I have very different duties from many of our members—that is to say, I have more latitude. I am able to meet with you because I consider it part of my duty to the community, after all. But at one o’clock I have to teach a class, and I’m afraid you’ll have to come back. Or I would be happy to have someone drop off that information tomorrow—but I’m afraid I have to go now.” He rose, and Emily got up from her chair. The interview had been abruptly terminated. She knew that she could press him on the issue, but it was obvious that she would be wasting her time and creating an antagonistic relationship without anything to show for it. She wasn’t getting anything else today, and she would never get a search warrant with what she had so far.

  She shook the hand of Reverend Thompson and returned his broad facsimile of a grin. She said thank-you, and she was careful to be courteous and respectful. The receptionist, somehow aware that the interview was over, knocked twice and entered, ready to escort Emily out the door. It was clearly time to leave, and Emily did not resist.

  As Emily walked down the stairs to the parking lot, she took out her phone. She checked the time. It was 12:43 p.m. Well played, Reverend Thompson, she thought. You got all the information you needed from me, and I got next to nothing.

  Emily looked up from her phone’s display. She noticed a man walking away from her vehicle. She saw him moving towards ‘the quad’, but she couldn’t see his face. He retreated quickly towards the other buildings. She thought at first that he might just have taken a shortcut across the parking lot but then she reached her Subaru and saw there was a note under the windshield wiper.

  She looked around. The man was now 200 feet (60 m) from her, speed walking towards the ‘quad’. She suppressed an urge to shout because he obviously didn’t want to be seen with her. She saw no one else. She couldn’t believe how empty the place was.

  She quickly snatched the note from under the wiper and palmed it. She glanced around again, this time looking for cameras. There were dozens of places within a stone’s throw where one might be hidden. There was really no limit to how many cameras they could have, and she suspected the MCP would have an impressive security budget.

  She opened the door to her car, got in and started it up. She kept the note low, holding it under the steering wheel while she opened it. Whatever the man had been trying to tell her, he had clearly not wanted to be caught giving her the note. She saw the letters that were handwritten in black ink. She immediately regretted letting him get away.

  PLEASE DON’T LEAVE, it read in large capitalized print, TAKE ME WITH YOU—EZEKIEL ABRAHAM

  Chapter 4

  That was all it said. She looked again and the man was completely gone. She tried to process what had just happened. She didn’t see how it made any sense.

  If the man had wanted to leave with her, why had he practically run away? He could have asked her for a ride. If he was being held against his will, he could have stowed away in the back of her car while she went through the security gate. She could have taken him away from here, if he had only made contact in some other way. She felt badly—PLEASE DON’T LEAVE, the note begged—but she also realized that there was nothing she could have done. He had scurried away before she even knew what was happening. Maybe he was too scared to talk to her—he might not be thinking clearly. Regardless, there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t very well drive around the compound shouting, “Ezekiel Abraham, where are you?”

  She backed the car up and turned toward the security gate. Getting out of the MCP compound took a bit longer than she expected. She was behind a sizeable truck with the logo ‘Stonepoint Construction’ on it. It was a well-known Hawk Claw company. She stared at the back of the big diesel rig for nearly five minutes while they stopped at the gate. Finally, the truck pulled away, belching diesel fumes. She drove forward, giving her visitor badge back to the guard. When at last the MCP compound faded away in her rear-view mirror, she felt a mix of relief and guilt wash over her.

  She arrived at the Sheriff’s Department an hour later and even though she had contemplated the note for the entire time, she still couldn’t understand the man’s motivation. Complicating things was the fact that she was exhausted, having been up all night. She headed straight for the Sheriff’s office.

  “Sir? I think we need to talk,” she said. Sheriff Edwards looked up from behind his desk. She went in and took out the note—she had placed it in a plastic bag to preserve any trace evidence—and placed it on his desk.

  Sheriff Edwards picked it up and examined it—curious at first, and then contemplative. They talked it over. Why had this Ezekiel taken the chance to leave her a note, but then fled, without attempting to talk with her? She had been wearing her deputy uniform so she would have been easily identifiable as law enforcement. But, as she explained to Sheriff Edwards, she had driven there in her personal vehicle.

  “I was off-shift,” she explained, “And it’s a long drive. I just prefer my Subaru to the Explorer.” This wasn’t unheard of, because while she had been conducting an interview, she was technically off-duty.

  “If you had been in an official vehicle, do you think it might have gone differently?” the Sheriff asked.

  “I don’t know, sir,” she said, “I have no idea what this Ezekiel was thinking. I only got a glimpse of him. He might not have seen me at all. Or maybe he was watching me the whole time. I just don’t know.”

  “OK,” he said, “But from now on, if you’re on official business—off-duty or not—you take the Explorer.”

  “Yes, sir. But what about this?” Emily pointed to the note.

  “That’s a good question,” he replied. They talked about it for several more minutes. Both of them agreed that something needed to be done. However, this really did not meet the criteria for a search warrant. Ezekiel Abraham had not said he was being held against his will, nor had he said there was a crime being committed. He had only said ‘Please don’t leave, take me with you.’ One could argue that he was simply looking for a ride into town.

  “For now,” Sheriff Edwards said, “We need to get the Emergency doctor to sign his statement, and then you need to go home and get some sleep. And that’s an order.”

  This was before any outsiders knew how extreme the MCP ideology was. This was before anyone knew the extent to which they had infiltrated the community. In retrospect, it may seem obvious that the police should have gone up there and raided the place, but no one knew. Certainly, Deputy Emily Holland had no idea what they were capable of—if anything, she had been reassured by how reasonable and cooperative Reverend Thompson had been. She knew he was hiding something, but she could never have guessed what it was.

  As for me, I was getting ready for my
next shift. I have always had a love-hate relationship with working the overnight shift. I enjoy the camaraderie, and I like the adrenaline of being up all night. I mean, that’s why my brother and I would pull all-nighters as kids, right? With enough Dr. Pepper, Doritos, and bad action movies, we could do anything. Similarly, working nights is an adventure. You certainly find crazy things happening at 3 a.m. when everyone else has gone home.

  I went in that night thinking that my life couldn’t get any more surreal after the events of the night before. Boy, was I wrong. I was only a couple hours into my shift—around one a.m., when things got weird again.

  “EMS just called,” my charge nurse said, “They’re intubating a patient who was found on the side of the road.”

  “OK,” I replied, “Any other info?”

  “Yeah, they’re five minutes away. They sounded pretty flustered. That’s all I got.”

  I thought, It’s probably just a cardiac arrest. It couldn’t possibly be a repeat of last night.

  The paramedics came through the ambulance bay doors in a flurry of activity, pumping oxygen into the endotracheal tube and performing CPR as they went. This was not an unusual scene; cardiac arrest is not an uncommon sight in the Emergency Department. But they had cut the clothes off to expose his body, and there they were—big bold letters, in gothic font, just like the night before.

  At the time, of course, I didn’t concentrate on what the words were—my mind was reeling, and I believe my most coherent thought would have been something like, This can’t be happening again! Fortunately, I was still able to do my job, because after your hundredth patient whose heart has stopped beating, you learn to perform your duties like it is second nature. Even when the patient has biblical verses burned into his chest.

  As it turned out, the poor guy never really had a chance, and so there isn’t much to tell about the resuscitation effort. The patient had been found on the side of the road twenty miles from town. About half an hour had elapsed before the ambulance had arrived, but one of the Hawk Claw County deputies had arrived and done CPR prior to the EMTs. The paramedic who had intubated the patient was puzzled by the fact that he had found ‘black stuff’ coming out of the vocal cords. I knew it was soot from extensive lung injury.