The Armageddon Prophecy

by Raymond Finkle

  The Seraphim reached under his black cloak. The automatic pistol was secure in its shoulder holster. If it came to that, he would simply shoot them. The only problem would be later—when the autopsy revealed bullets—but that wasn’t something he was worried about now. By then, it would be too late. The prophecy was clear—it would be the eighth day. He smiled again thinking of it.

  He saw many lights blazing away. It was an adobe mansion, a sprawling two floor Spanish Colonial, and it was lit up from one end to the other. As he drew closer, he could see both of them through the bay window, sitting in the living room, completely unaware of his presence. He smiled. He kept moving towards them, taking his time. He saw no reason to hurry. He was going to enjoy this. They had dared to infiltrate the sanctity of the MCP and now they would pay the price.

  He knew he should make a plan. The Messiah had said to be discreet. He was supposed to make it look like they died in an accidental fire—and he would arrange it as best as possible afterwards. But for now, he kept advancing towards the two unsuspecting fools. He whistled softly and the dogs fell in line behind him. They would follow him into hell if he commanded it.

  The truth was, he didn’t care if it looked like an accident or not. Soon enough, the Messiah would be unveiled as the one true leader, and the MCP would be the only church in the new world. The Messiah would lead them into the dawn of a new age. Every person on earth would bow to him. It wouldn’t be long before the entire world was worshiping the Messiah.

  The entire world…or, at least, what was left of it.

  Emily stayed with Reverend Santos for well over an hour. She called the Sheriff’s department to explain that she would be late getting back. The deputy who picked up the phone questioned what she was doing, but she explained that she was gathering information that would be helpful to the investigation.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she said, “But would it be OK if I recorded this?”

  “That’s fine,” he said, “But none of it will hold up in court. What I’m about to tell you is all hearsay—things I’ve gleaned from countless conversations and… well, from rumors. Just what I’ve heard around town, as they say.” And then he continued explaining what he knew about the MCP. “Those verses on the victims were from the King James Version of the Bible. That’s a Protestant translation, and I happen to know that it’s the one that the MCP uses. Don’t get me wrong—the MCP are not Protestants—they are not even technically Christians, as they are not recognized by any church—they just happen to use that version of the Bible. The exact wording of the different Bible versions doesn’t really matter too much, in my opinion—although there are many scholars who would argue differently. But I think the overall meaning of these verses is pretty clear.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “Well, the meaning of Revelation 21:8 is fairly straight forward. Punishment in the lake of fire, the second death, is what waits for unbelievers, as well as for sinners. It mentions various forms of sin—murder, and sexual proclivity—will result in eternal burning.”

  “Does it mean that they felt this woman was a sinner?”

  “Most likely, yes, I would assume so, but who knows what goes through the mind of someone who would do such a thing?” Emily knew he was making a good point. Logic and deduction didn’t necessarily apply, and she had to be careful not to read too much into the scripture that was burned on the victims’ skin. “The verse also mentions unbelievers, so it is possible that she was someone who expressed disagreement or had not shown enough adherence to their strict codes.”

  “You think this was the MCP’s work?” Emily asked.

  “I hate to accuse them without any proof, but let’s just say that I think you will need to look at them very closely. They are known to have a belief system that is… medieval, in many ways. They advocate an interpretation of the Bible that has never been accepted by any Church of Christianity. They believe that women are not to be allowed outside of the MCP compound. Ever, for any reason. They only allow men to leave for serious circumstances which requires the approval of the elders.”

  She paused, thinking of the compound she had visited, and the lies Reverend Thompson had told her. He had said that members were free to come and go as they pleased. Hearing the truth was infuriating. “Who are the elders?” she asked.

  “There are eight of them. Reverend Marcus Thompson is, by far, the most visible. He functions as a kind of spokesperson, the public face of the MCP. They claim that the eight elders all share the same amount of influence, but of course that isn’t the reality. Thompson is number two in the hierarchy. Obviously, number one is the man known as the Messiah.” He paused, expecting Emily to fill in the blank. When she did not, he said, “Lucas Burke. The founder of the MCP. Surely you know that much?”

  “Father, I’m sure the Sheriff knows all about the MCP and this Mr. Burke. But I’m just being brought up to speed. So please—spare no details.”

  “Of course,” he said, and continued. “Burke moved here in the 1980s, from Las Vegas. That much is true, although there is a lot of disagreement on the specifics of his background. The version he espouses is, of course, quite holy, and he paints himself as a misunderstood prophet who could not stomach the ways of all the sinners in Las Vegas. I suspect the real version is a bit different—there was talk that he was run out of town after a land deal went bad and he owed people money.”

  “Reverend Thompson told me that Mr. Burke regularly meets with religious leaders, including the Pope. Is that true?”

  “Well, of course, I don’t know the Pope’s personal schedule... but I would doubt that very much. Think about it. Do you think the Pope meets with cultists from rural Colorado? It doesn’t seem likely.”

  “On the other hand, Burke does lead twenty thousand people.”

  “Again, I wouldn’t be so sure. No one knows how many people are in that compound. The MCP doesn’t let anyone in.”

  “You don’t think there are that many?”

  “I don’t know. How could I? Mr. Burke claims that there are 20,000 true believers all living happily under the umbrella of the one true leader—that is the version he claims is truth. But then he doesn’t let anyone inside the walls. And he doesn’t let anyone out. Once they’ve joined, people aren’t allowed to leave. That’s what is so disturbing.”

  “How do you know all this, Father?” Emily asked. Reverend Santos motioned to the little recording device Emily had placed on his desk. He made it clear he wanted it off, so Emily turned it off and placed it in her pocket.

  “I’ve got someone you should meet,” he said, “But I insist it be off the record, one hundred percent, no mention of him whatsoever, unless he consents to it. I don’t think he will testify or agree to any formal cooperation, but he will probably talk to you, if you show him you can be trusted.” And with that, he stood up and motioned for Emily to follow. They went into the vestry and then Reverend Santos opened a door into what appeared to be a closet. He pulled on a string that was hanging down. A light came on. As he kept pulling, he pushed on the back of the closet and it swung inward. It was a hidden door. He walked through it and up some stairs. Emily followed.

  “As you know, Emily, I dabble in carpentry from time to time. I built this room in the late ‘90’s when I found a need to hide victims of domestic abuse. The local shelter system was non-existent at the time and this is much more discreet.”

  The stairs wound around, and they emerged in a room partitioned off the attic of the Church. Cobwebs hung from the exposed rafters and there was a faint musty smell. A small desk, a chair, and a bed were the only furniture. In the dark someone stirred and sat up. Emily couldn’t see anything. Reverend Santos reached over and turned on a lamp.

  “Father?” the man said.

  “It’s O.K., Frank, you don’t have to worry. This is Emily Holland. She’s a deputy, but she isn’t here in an official capacity right now. I’ve known her since she was a child and you can trust her. She’s agreed to keep your
name off the record. But she needs some information, and I think you should talk to her.”

  “What’s this about?” he asked, and he reached over to the table and grabbed a tin of chewing tobacco. He took a large wad and inserted it in his mouth.

  “The MCP,” Emily said.

  “I know that,” he said, “I mean, who have they killed now?”

  Chapter 8

  The man’s name was Franklin Monteiro, and he had escaped from the MCP two weeks before. As he lay on the bed, Emily examined him. He looked like he hadn’t showered in days. He had a stubbly beard on his chin. He was rail thin and had bags under his eyes. At some point he may have been handsome, but she felt like she was looking at a man who had already lived a hard life, despite his young age. He was 25 years old and had joined the MCP after “losing his way,” as he put it, and marrying a woman who was deeply religious. He did not elaborate much on why he had joined. He was very open about more recent events, though.

  “They start you slow, see,” he said, “They kind of feel you out. It’s like an abusive relationship, right? They don’t hit you at first, they just call you names and make you feel like crap. They soften you up and see if you’ll resist. The beatings come later. That’s how they work. They’ve got it down to a science.”

  “What happened to your wife?” asked Emily.

  “She’s still there. She’s a true believer. Yeah… As it turns out, she’s completely nuts. It was her idea to join… and I went along for the ride. Love is blind, I guess. Leave it to me, I sure can pick ‘em.”

  “What made you decide to get out?” asked Emily.

  “They were murdering people. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Who did they murder? Did you witness the murders?”

  “No. No, I didn’t see it. It’s not like that. They’re not stupid. Like I said, it’s like an abusive relationship. They give you warnings, right? They tell you, be a good boy, and you won’t get in trouble. There was this one woman…” He stopped. Emily could tell he was emotional, so she waited. After a long pause, he started up again. “Her name was Ellen. Anyway, she was young, a little younger than me. And we… we got together; we kind of fell in love. I don’t know what she saw in me, I swear to God. But she liked me. And… I was married… but it was long over by then. I mean, it took me awhile to figure it out, but once it was over, it was over—and I was still stuck in purgatory. So… me and Ellen, we… ahhh…. Did the deed, right? I really liked her.” He began to cry softly.

  “What happened?” Emily asked.

  “They killed her,” he said, wiping away tears, “But that’s the thing. They don’t make announcements; they don’t even acknowledge it. But the next day she disappeared. All of a sudden, she was just gone, and you’re not allowed to ask where she went. You’re forbidden from mentioning her name. Everyone knows—we all knew. It was the same as all the others who had disappeared before her. To the MCP, she was a sinner, so she was not to be mentioned. She was an adulterer, and since she was a woman, the punishment was death. They’re real clear about that kind of thing. For a guy, it’s considered a minor offense. They must have seen us… there are cameras everywhere in there. The place is like a giant insane asylum.”

  And then he started to become agitated, as if he had just remembered something. “I have to get out of town,” he said.

  “Calm down, Frank, you’re safe here,” Reverend Santos reassured him.

  “Mr. Monteiro, when was this?” Emily asked.

  “About two months ago,” he said, “That’s when I knew I had to get out.”

  “How did you escape?” Emily asked.

  “It wasn’t easy. I almost got caught. They have cameras all over the place and you don’t know when they’re watching. I had to plan it all in my head. I couldn’t afford to write anything down. I had to go through the motions day by day—prayer, study, chores—while thinking about how to get out. But in the end, I was just lucky. I was taking out the garbage behind the dining hall and I saw a construction truck. There’s always construction going on and they have to import workers to get stuff done. There’s electricians and plumbers and general contractors around all the time. You’re not supposed to interact with them. The MCP makes it sound like they’re all self-sufficient and they don’t need outside help but that’s a load of crap. They need lots of help. They tell everyone there’s twenty thousand of us. Ha! Another lie of theirs.”

  “What do you mean, Frank? The MCP exaggerates it’s numbers?”

  “Yeah, it’s a good strategy, right? Just like all the stories they tell, they’ve thought it through. They tell everyone there’s twenty thousand MCP members to make it seem like they’re some huge force to be reckoned with.”

  “How many are there, Frank?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe five thousand. I tried to figure it out once, from how many buildings there are. It gets boring and I needed something to do. They spend a lot of time praying. Not me. I stopped praying the day I joined the MCP.”

  “Why did you join the MCP, Frank?” asked Emily, “No offense, but you don’t seem very religious.”

  Reverend Santos said, “Frank has struggled with a demon that is all too common these days, with the opioid epidemic upon us.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, “That’s a nice way of putting it, Reverend. I just say that I’m a junkie. I’ve been in and out of rehab since I was a teenager. In 2018, I met Kim—my wife—in Narcotics Anonymous, and she convinced me to join the MCP after we got married. It was going to change everything. I was never gonna have the cravings again, it would all be replaced by the MCP…” he trailed off.

  “You were doing heroin?” Emily asked.

  “Yes. But it’s awfully hard to get any inside those walls. The MCP is like a big prison. But just like prison, there are ways—bribing the guards, getting them to bring you stuff. I never really scored inside—but I talked to people who said they had scored oxycontin, and weed, and alcohol. Because that was banned, right? No booze, not for an MCP member. It was strictly forbidden.”

  “But you never… ‘scored’?” Emily asked.

  “No. You see, Deputy, here’s the thing about that. You’re living in a religious cult compound. You have a known history of drug use, right? You’ve been drifting away from the ‘true path’ for months. You go to Bible study; you go to prayer groups, but it isn’t too hard to tell when someone’s just pretending they believe. Then one day, someone approaches you, right? Someone you’ve seen around, but you don’t really know—and they say, ‘hey, I can score you some dope! For free! What do you say?’”

  “Entrapment,” Emily says.

  “And not too subtle about it, right?” Frank said, “I mean, they were kind of pathetically obvious. It scared me at first—they know I’m not really one of them and they’re trying to catch me up in a sin—but then I thought about how blatant they were about it and I started to laugh. I mean I actually started laughing. It made me feel better… because they were so stupid about it, I felt like, they might have cameras everywhere, but they’re still complete idiots.”

  “Mr. Monteiro,” Emily said, “Were you aware that the MCP has an airstrip?”

  “Well, yeah, of course. How could I not be aware of it? They have jets coming and going at all hours—mostly during the day, but sometimes you’d hear them landing at night, too. There’s a bunch of airplane hangars and a tiny control tower. Everyone knows about it, but no one knows what they’re bringing in. Personally, I think they’re running drugs or something… some kind of illegal operation that finances all of it. But... I don’t know. It was another taboo. A forbidden subject. You just didn’t talk about it. Like, never mind that screaming jet aircraft coming in for a landing. Nothing to see here.”

  “I see,” said Emily, and then prompted him again. “You were telling me about your escape.”

  “Yeah. I got lucky. There was a truck, and it had some tools and lumber in the back. I took out five or six 2x4s and a toolbox, stashed them behind the dum
pster and hid myself under a tarp on the flatbed. I guessed at the weight. Turns out I must have been right. Lucky I’m such a bean pole.”

  Emily didn’t understand. “The weight?”

  “Yeah. For the scales.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Wow. I mean you guys don’t know anything about that place, do you? They have scales at the entrance—they weigh the trucks as they go in and as they go out. They take a strict inventory from the workers. It’s one of the ways they make sure no one stows away for a ride to freedom.”

  Emily was a bit stunned by this and it showed on her face. “You mean… the hold up at the gate… going in and out of the MCP compound…”

  “They’re weighing the vehicles,” he said, “They’ve got massive scales, like you’d see at a truck stop or at the dump. It’s simple, really. Any discrepancies and they pull you aside and search your car.” Emily was momentarily dumbfounded.

  “What about the cameras?” she asked after a bit, “Wouldn’t they have seen you stow away on the truck?”

  “My guess is, they did,” he said, “Like I said, they have cameras all over the place. But I think it’s too much information to process in real time. Like, if I was caught on camera, they would have reviewed the footage later—so they could figure out how I escaped, but I would have already been gone.”

  “Tell her about the implants,” Reverend Santos said.

  “I can do better than that,” Frank said, and pulled off the dirty white T-shirt he was wearing. Emily noticed a couple of old track marks on his arms—and maybe a couple of fresh ones. Frank twisted around in bed and showed her his back. There was a crusted bloody scab on his back. It was right in the middle of his back. The scab took up most of the tattoo that had been the symbol of the MCP. It was in the same spot as it had been on the two victims.