The Armageddon Prophecy

by Raymond Finkle

  “You mean you never switch back to a daytime schedule?” I asked.

  “She used to,” Gary said, “But I’m a night owl, so after a few years of working nights and trying to pretend like she was a normal person—she finally gave up. That was twenty years ago.”

  “You mean you’re 100% nocturnal?” I asked.

  “Yup,” Angela said, “We sometimes switch back for a few days if we have something to attend—like a wedding during the day, or my nephew’s birthday party last month—but in general, we like being awake when everyone else is sleeping. We automatically have ninety percent fewer people to deal with.” I laughed at that.

  “Wow,” I said, “When you put it that way… maybe I’ll switch to working nights.” I said good-bye and promised to check in with them tomorrow night. I asked them what the plan was from here on out. “That’s a good question,” Angela said, “We’re going to talk about it… we’ve got a long ride to Denver tomorrow. But I think we should consider going to the press.”

  “To tell them about the two killings?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “And about the demon dogs.”

  “We can show them the video,” Gary said.

  “And your leg,” I added.

  “They’re not going to get away with this,” Angela said.

  And at that moment, I believed her.

  Deputy Emily Holland had flipped back from her nocturnal schedule and was in a more or less normal routine. That night, while we had been unsuccessfully raiding the MCP compound, she had been sleeping. In the morning she got up and showered and drank more than the usual amount of coffee. I was just going home and going to bed while she went into the Sheriff’s office to continue the investigation. The day before had been spent looking into the MCP—what was known about them, how many people lived in the MCP compound, and whether any of them had reason to commit these heinous crimes.

  No one knew for sure how many people lived behind the walls of the MCP compound because they always refused to have a census count done. Some government intrusion was inevitable—the county insisted on septic and building inspections, but even these were minimal and done with as little interaction as possible. Health officials had to inspect their eating facilities, doctors had to certify births, and occasionally a report to the Department of Children and Families would spur an investigation which required cooperation. However, these instances were few and far between. Social workers described houses and apartments devoid of technology with very few furnishings and no artwork or pictures except for religious artifacts. They described stepping back into the 1800’s—docile woman and strange men who hardly talked. That was what was known of the MCP at the time.

  So, while everyone knew that there were 3,000 people in the other parts of Hawk Claw County, no one knew how many occupied the MCP compound. The best guess was 20,000, so the official census listed Hawk Claw County as having a population of 23,000.

  The MCP compound was private property and any county official who tried to exert his or her will on the MCP soon found him or herself looking for another job. It was quite clear that the MCP had influence with the local government. What was not clear was how many county officials were actually MCP members. What concerned Emily Holland at the time was where her boss, Sheriff Thomas Edwards, stood with respect to the MCP. She knew he had to have dealings with them. She wasn’t naïve. She knew that the Sheriff of Hawk Claw County would have had to interact with some of the MCP leaders at some point. He had said as much when he had arranged for her interview with Reverend Thompson. What she didn’t know was where his loyalties lay.

  She had spent that first sleep deprived day researching the MCP and going over much of what was already known about them. The Sheriff had designated different jobs for each deputy—they had established an investigative strategy and even had a large whiteboard with post-it notes stuck on it. They put photos of the two victims, printed out from digital camera shots, with notes under them with all information pertinent to the investigation written underneath. After the second victim, the Sheriff had made some calls, and they were allowed access to the compound to interview people ‘on the street’ or in their homes.

  This was considered a victory, although it was, in reality, a minor concession by the MCP. Furthermore, the three deputies who had been up there the day before had not gotten much information. They had shown the victims’ pictures to different people, all of whom had said they had no idea who they were looking at.

  The autopsy of the victims had revealed that they had both died of massive inhalation burns. Their lungs had been charred, to the point that the M.E. had been amazed that the young woman had survived as long as she had. In both cases, it was clear that this had killed them. There were a few other interesting facts, though, and Emily read the reports on her computer in her office at 6 a.m. while sipping her fourth cup of coffee.

  Both victims had identical tattoos on them. Emily silently scolded herself for having missed the first victim’s tattoo. It was on the victim’s upper back, and when Emily had gotten her brief inspection of the young woman that first night, the patient had been on a ventilator in the ICU. So, it would have been extremely difficult if not impossible for Emily to have discovered it. However, she should have thought to ask the doctors and nurses about tattoos—surely, they must have noticed it.

  Both victims had the same tattoo in the same spot—mid back, below the shoulder blades, about the size of a half-dollar coin. The M.E. had taken pictures and attached them to the reports. Emily recognized the intricate design. It was a snake forming a circle and eating its own tail with eight smaller snakes meeting in the middle. She knew that the symbol of the MCP, which they referred to as the ‘Chrysalis,’ symbolized rebirth. In nature, a chrysalis was a cocoon that a caterpillar would go into before coming out as a moth. She had seen the same pattern on Reverend Thompson’s tie, and online on the MCP website. And she remembered the Reverend had specifically asked her if the victims had had any identifying marks, “such as birthmarks or tattoos.” At the time, she hadn’t thought much of it.

  She pulled up the Google Earth image she had looked at before—that of the overhead satellite view of the MCP compound. It was very clear that the compound was laid out in the same pattern as the Chrysalis. The entire compound was a circular shape, with the diameter being over a mile across. There were eight roads crisscrossing in the middle, just like the tattoos. She looked more closely. She could see buildings, but she couldn’t make out any details. Except for one thing. She could see that one of the roads that divided the compound was not a road. It was a runway.

  So, they can move material in and out of the compound in total secrecy, she thought. She didn’t know what that material might be—drugs? She knew she was reaching. But at the same time, why on earth would they need an airfield?

  The whole idea of a religious cult compound a mile wide in the shape of ‘the Chrysalis,’—with a small airfield in the middle—was quite fantastic. She knew they had to be hiding something. She suspected that the smooth-talking Reverend Thompson was, at the very least, guilty of being a con artist. She pictured his face when she went to arrest him—it would be satisfying. But she also knew she was tired and not thinking clearly. It wasn’t so simple. She had, she supposed, come to think of the MCP as a person, or an entity that she could lock up behind bars, but of course the reality was far different. Even if the Sheriff was able to get a search warrant—What would it be for? To search the entire MCP compound? It was a mile wide. Not only would no judge in his or her right mind sign off on such a broad, sweeping invasion of privacy, it wouldn’t be physically possible to conduct a search on such a massive scale; not without hundreds of officers. And the Sheriff had five deputies at his disposal, including her.

  There was something else of significance in the autopsy reports. Both of the victims had electronic devices implanted in them. The first victim had gotten chest x-rays done in the Emergency Department and again in the ICU, and the device had
been presumed to be a bullet from an old firearm injury. This had been the most logical explanation at the time. It was not uncommon to find bullets in people that were leftover souvenirs from old injuries so when the first victim had been noted to have one, no one had thought anything of it.

  But on autopsy, both patients had the same metal object implanted under the skin in the middle of their back. The overlying Chrysalis tattoos marked the locations of the implants. The M.E. had taken multiple pictures of the tattoos and then sliced open the skin with a scalpel and removed the implants. They looked like oversized button batteries. There were no markings on them, no letters or numbers. The M.E. had not tried to tamper with them or open them up.

  Deputy Holland wondered what the little metal objects did. Were they tracking devices? Did they transmit GPS coordinates? The x-rays only showed the shape of the devices and didn’t penetrate the outer shell—they did nothing to reveal what was inside.

  She thought for a moment about what was known so far. She went over to the whiteboard with all the notes on it. Pictures of the implants and tattoos were taped to the board. She went to get another cup of coffee.

  She decided that she was going to talk to her Pastor, Reverend Santos. Although it had been a while since she had been to church, that was not what she had in mind. She thought if she hurried, she could make it back for the morning meeting at 7 a.m. She got in her SUV and drove a mile to the outskirts of town. She parked in the church parking lot and went in through the massive wooden doors. It was early but she knew he would be up. She saw him at the altar. He turned and smiled as he saw her approach.

  “Emily,” he said, “How nice to see you.”

  She had known him all her life, and it always made her happy to see him. He was getting on in years—she figured he must be seventy, but he was active and in good health. His dark hair had gone grey in spots, and his brown eyes had clouded over slightly—his vision was poor, she knew, despite multiple surgeries. She used to see him often, and she had forgotten how much she missed his warm smile and friendly affect.

  “Reverend,” she said, “I was hoping to have a word with you. I’m here on official business, on an investigation—and I was hoping you could help.” Reverend Anthony Santos lost his smile as his face took on a troubled look.

  “I know,” he said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Chapter 7

  They went into his office, a tiny room just off the vestry, where he had a coffee pot. Emily decided that one more cup couldn’t hurt. She had been in this office many times. Emily had grown up just outside the town of Hawk Claw and had been raised Congregationalist. She still had faith, but she didn’t come to see Reverend Santos nearly enough, and she apologized for not having been to church services in over a month.

  “You never need ask me for forgiveness,” he said, and she smiled. A guiding influence on her, he had always been able to understand her. He often voiced what she was thinking, and sometimes she felt like he could read her mind.

  “Reverend, how did you know I would be coming?” she asked as he beckoned her to have a seat.

  “I hear everything that happens in town, as you know. I’ve already spoken to about a dozen people who have theories about who did this, and why. And of course, they all blame the MCP. Which is unfair, really—I thought everyone—even the MCP—was supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.” Emily smiled when she heard him say ‘even the MCP’—she had talked to him on the subject before and knew where he stood. While the MCP claimed to be a legitimate offshoot of Christianity, the reality was that they were a cult.

  “What exactly have you heard, Reverend?”

  “I heard that two people were murdered, by some kind of internal burns. And I heard that they were branded with scripture from the Bible.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Nothing that wasn’t idle speculation. But I was surprised that it hadn’t been on the news.”

  “I suspect that won’t last much longer.”

  “Emily, why are you here? It isn’t for my coffee.” She laughed. He did make absolutely terrible coffee. She wondered how long it had been since he had cleaned out the coffee pot. She didn’t want to know. She reached into her pocket and took out her cell phone.

  “What I am about to show you needs to remain confidential, Reverend, because it is information that hasn’t been released to the public and releasing it could harm the investigation.” She said it at the same time that she showed him the pictures because she knew she could trust him. One picture was of the woman’s torso, bare breasts and all, which had been branded with scripture. Another was of her back, with the same words. Another was of the man’s body, branded with different Bible verse. She showed him everything—the scripture, the x-rays, the faces of the victims, the implants that were found embedded in them, and the tattoos which marked the location of the implants. Reverend Santos just watched as she flashed picture after picture up in front of him. His mouth hung a little open. He must have known what was coming, to some degree, but he was still shocked.

  Finally, she got to the end of the string of photographs. She said nothing, knowing that he was processing. It was a lot to take in.

  “It’s one thing to hear about it through idle gossip, but it’s quite another to see it,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Reverend. I wouldn’t have come to you if I had other options. But anything you can do to help—I’m trying to stop this from happening again.”

  “Of course, you are,” he said, and smiled again.

  “The verses written on them are as follows. ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving…”

  But Reverend Santos interrupted her, and recited from memory, “Revelation Chapter Twenty-one, verse eight: ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.’”

  “Yes, Father. And on the second victim…” But he had seen the scripture that had been emblazoned on Ezekiel Abraham’s chest, and he interrupted her again.

  “‘For if God spared not the angels that sinned, but cast them down to hell, and delivered them into chains of darkness, to be reserved unto judgment, and spared not the old world, but saved Noah the eighth person, a preacher of righteousness, bringing in the flood upon the world of the ungodly.” Emily was not surprised. She knew how smart he was. He had committed the verses to memory long ago.

  “What does it mean, Reverend?” she asked.

  “It means, Emily, that the Messianic Cathedral of Penance has finally resorted to practicing the evil that they have long pretended to condemn.”

  It was later that night when the man known only as the Seraphim pulled off the road a mile from Tumbledown Ranch. He was a tall man who wore a cloak fastened around his neck and old-fashioned clothes that would have passed for normal in the 1700s. He had tall leather boots and a white ruffled shirt, and he looked like he should have been on a horse instead of driving a pickup. He stepped out of the grey Chevrolet Silverado and let the rear gate down. The MCP had a fleet of eight identical trucks but this one was special. Only the Seraphim and the Messiah were allowed to use this particular truck. It had a custom suspension to support the extra weight from the armor plating. It had bulletproof windows and a direct satellite link for remote communications. The Seraphim knew that it could withstand anything the FBI could throw at it. He and the Messiah had just discussed the situation. The Messiah had been worried about the federal authorities. One new MCP member had raised their suspicions and the Messiah thought the recruit could be an undercover FBI agent. The Seraphim smiled. He wasn’t concerned. Ironically, he sometimes seemed to have more faith than the Messiah himself. He knew things would turn out exactly as had been predicted.

  The two dogs jumped out of the pickup bed and waited at attention. They were vicious and well trained. They would reliably do any task he commanded without making a peep. They
could casually tear apart a human being if he uttered the right words. Now he gave them the command to patrol and off they went. If they found anything of interest—any other humans—then they would come back and alert him.

  He thought again of the recent conversation with the Messiah. He wasn’t sure that it mattered what the police did—in a few more days, none of it would matter. The Messiah said he just didn’t want the FBI to raid them before the day of judgement—that was all that mattered. The Seraphim secretly hoped the authorities would try something so stupid. He knew that he was going to be very busy soon, and none of it would matter. They would finally fulfill the prophecy. The armor plating on his truck was going to come in handy soon enough, and no law enforcement agent—undercover or not—would survive the wrath of his vengeance. He chuckled slightly thinking of it, and then snapped back to reality.

  He had to concentrate on the task at hand. He looked around and thought about how he could cover his tracks. He didn’t see any problems. This place was very isolated and that worked to his advantage. He would move stealthily in case they had security cameras, but he doubted it. They might be armed, too, but he knew that, even if they did have firearms in the house, they would be unprepared for him. He had the element of surprise. He wouldn’t let the Messiah down.

  He walked through the night carrying the heavy five-gallon plastic spray cannister. He had filled it with gasoline and he knew how to distribute the accelerant in strategic spots to cause the most damage. He also knew that the Lancasters raised chickens and they had heating lamps in their barn. This would make for the perfect alibi. He would move some hay and make it seem like the heating lamp had tipped over, starting the fire.

  He knew, from the security footage he had watched, that both of the Lancasters were more agile than he would have expected. The man, especially, could move quickly and had surprising upper body strength that had enabled him to climb the MCP wall. The Seraphim would have to be careful of this one.