The Armageddon Prophecy

by Raymond Finkle

  “Why, my Lord?” Reverend Thompson said now. “Haven’t I always said you are the one true Messiah? Please, tell me what I have done wrong. I can repent, my Lord. I can redeem myself. I can redouble my efforts. I know I can prove my faith to you—just tell me how! There must have been some mistake! I could never betray you—”

  The Seraphim, who was standing next to the Reverend, reached his hand out. He had carried the man to this spot, as easily as one might carry a small suitcase. He had stood him in front of the cliff and let him talk. But now, it seemed, the Seraphim grew weary of listening. He was going to give a slight push—a simple nudge—and the Reverend Thompson would be forced over backwards, and then he would fall into the abyss. He could never survive the impact, but even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. The only thing waiting for him at the bottom was death—whether it came slow or fast made no difference.

  Burke stopped the Seraphim’s hand, and thus halted the execution of Reverend Marcus Thompson. The Seraphim, chastened, put his hand immediately at his side. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he said.

  “It’s OK, child,” Burke said to him, “I know you were only doing what you thought right.”

  Burke looked at Thompson. The good Reverend was crying now. Tears streamed down his face and over the duct tape. “Thank you, my Lord,” Thompson said as he sobbed. He apparently thought he would be spared. “Thank you, Lord Messiah. I knew you would understand—you have always been kind and caring. I’m sorry if I ever questioned the plan for Washington—”

  “I know, I know,” Burke said, addressing the blubbering man who was wrapped in duct tape. “I know you, too, were only doing what you thought was right. But next time, you will have to listen to the Messiah. Next time, you will have to do exactly as you are instructed, without questioning my orders. Next time, you will understand that my way is the path to righteousness, and it is the only path, and I shall not forgive your insolence so easily… next time.”

  Thompson sobbed, “Yes, my Lord! Thank you, my Lord. I shall not let you down next time.”

  Burke stepped forward until he and the Reverend were face to face. They looked directly in each other’s eyes. Burke sighed and whispered, “There shall be no next time.”

  Suddenly and swiftly, Burke gave the duct-taped Thompson a hard shove using both hands. The relief on the Reverend’s face turned to sheer terror in the span of a nanosecond. Unable to move his legs to get his balance, he fell over backwards like a plank, and tumbled into the dark, musty air of the mine shaft.

  Burke listened. He had dreamed of this moment, half dozing in the Air Traffic Control tower. He had been picturing how it would happen. He had been looking forward to it, and he had decided that he was going to savor it.

  But there was something wrong. Something hard to believe. Reverend Thompson was sailing hundreds of feet through the air to his death, and yet he wasn’t screaming. Not even a slight shriek.

  The Messiah Lucas Burke and the man known as the Seraphim both listened to the silence, amazed that the Reverend was able to control himself enough at the end that he wasn’t howling at the top of his lungs. For several seconds, they heard nothing. They looked at one another. Then it came.

  There was a dull but distinct ‘THUD’ that reverberated up through the chamber. Burke and the Seraphim continued to stare at one another. It seemed impossible. The man hadn’t made a peep.

  “Let’s go,” said Burke, not wanting to show that he was unnerved. “We have work to do.” The Seraphim followed him up and out of the cavern as they slowly climbed back towards daylight. Neither of them spoke, and the Seraphim felt a deep unsettled feeling, as if the Reverend had somehow tricked them. Thompson was, of course, dead, but something didn’t feel right. The Seraphim had killed many people in the name of the Messiah, and it had never felt like this. Somehow, despite the outcome, it seemed as though the Reverend had had the last laugh. The Reverend Marcus Thompson had shown them what true belief was, right at the end, when he should have been screaming in terror.

  “My Lord—” the Seraphim started to say, but found he was unable to articulate himself.

  “What is it?” asked Burke, annoyed.

  “Nothing, my Lord. Forgive me.”

  They didn’t speak for the entire ride back to the MCP compound.

  I managed not to scream too loud. The water was bitterly cold, and I was barely able to contain myself, so I breathed really fast and bit my hand.

  “You OK in there?” Emily asked me from the other side of the wooden privacy barrier. I was in the outdoor shower behind her parent’s house, rinsing mud off my legs and soaping up my hair with shampoo.

  “I’m fine,” I said, “I’ll just be another minute.” I took several more deep breaths in an effort to regain control.

  “The water gets a little cold,” she said from the other side.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said in my best falsetto.

  Emily threw a towel over the privacy barrier as soon as I shut the water off. It landed on my head, and I started trying to get warm again.

  “You can borrow some of my brother’s old clothes,” she said and threw a blue and orange Denver Broncos football jersey and some jeans onto the barrier so I could grab them. I said thanks and eventually came out from the shower in my ridiculous new outfit. The jeans were way too small and the jersey, which was supposed to be oversized, barely fit. I felt like I was an awkward middle school kid. I shook hands with Mrs. Holland, Emily’s mom, who led me into the kitchen and offered me coffee. I took it gratefully.

  I sat on a stool in the kitchen while Emily showered outside. I made small talk with her mom as she fixed me eggs and toast. I discovered that I was very hungry, and I gulped them down gratefully. Emily came in wearing clean clothes that fit her perfectly. I stopped chewing when I saw her. She looked radiant. “Dad seems fine,” she said to her mom.

  “He’s been the same,” her mom replied.

  Then Emily turned to me. “You’re going to need to hole up here for a bit,” she said, “Hopefully it won’t be long.” I was at a loss for words, still trying to warm my hands up by wrapping them around the coffee mug. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” she went on, “I should be back in an hour or two with the cavalry.”

  I expected her to explain the situation to her mom, but she didn’t, and her mom seemed to know better than to ask questions. Maybe Emily felt it better to leave her ignorant of the murderous cult that was after us. So instead, she motioned for me to follow her. We went up the stairs. There were four rooms on the second floor, and we took the one at the front of the house.

  I was surprised to find her father sitting in a recliner. He looked wizened and dry, with flaking skin and a vacant expression on his face. He had very little hair left, and his eyes were sunk deep in his head. He was staring at a TV that was playing an old western in black and white.

  “Dad, this is Stephen,” Emily said. Her father said nothing. He didn’t seem to notice us. She whispered to me, “Advanced dementia. He won’t bother you at all.” I didn’t know what to say. I felt like I should say sorry, but she just pulled a chair up to the window. It overlooked the driveway. “You’re going to wait here and keep guard,” Emily said, “Have you ever used one of these?” she held up an automatic pistol.

  “Sure,” I said, “At a firing range… but never… in real life.” She showed me the basic functions—the clip release, the safety, and how to inspect the chamber. It had a round in the chamber already. She handed it to me, and I pointed it at the floor. I didn’t really know what to do, and I said so. “What am I supposed to do—exactly? You want me to watch for… what? A grey truck?”

  “Wait here,” she said, “And keep an eye on the driveway. You’ll be able to see if anyone approaches. I should be back in an hour… maybe a bit longer. The thing is…” she hesitated, and I waited.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Sheriff Edwards thinks the MCP may have spies in the department. That’s why I haven’t called this i
n over the radio. He’s the only one I really trust. But I know he’s been in touch with the FBI. I’m going to take my mom’s car and drive into town and talk to the Sheriff and then I’ll come back to get you.” I took a few moments to digest this new information. I felt like I was falling into an abyss, getting farther and farther from the surface with every new revelation. I looked over at her dad. He was still oblivious.

  “So, I just wait here to be rescued?” I said.

  “No,” she said, “You wait here and guard the house. I doubt that they’ll make the connection… between you, me, and my parents… but you never know.” I didn’t know what to say to that and I think it showed on my face, because she again tried to reassure me. “You’re probably safe for the time being. Stay here, but stay alert. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Is the FBI really involved?”

  “They better be.” With that, she walked down the stairs. I looked at her father, who stared blankly at the television. The garage door opened, and I watched as Emily drove away in her mom’s ancient SUV.

  I sat at the window keeping vigil over the driveway. I checked the gun’s safety again and again. I tried to process what was happening. I wondered what I would do if someone from the MCP showed up. I decided not to think about it, because I really didn’t have the slightest idea what the answer was. I would have to play it by ear. I couldn’t really picture myself in a gun battle, but I was also pretty scared. If a grey Chevy pickup showed up, I would probably empty a clip into it.

  At one point, Mrs. Holland came in and brought a tray of food to her husband. It was some kind of mush—oatmeal or porridge. She asked me if I needed anything. I was tempted to ask her if she had a grenade launcher, but I thought better of it. Instead, I said “No, thank you,” and she left us. Her husband didn’t even notice the tray of food. He stared at the screen that was now showing an episode of I Love Lucy.

  I spent the time perusing my phone. There was a small article in the national news about the murders in Hawk Claw, Colorado. It was vague and did not provide any of the crucial details. I looked around the web some more but didn’t find anything else. I got up and stretched. I was pretty sore. My rollover crash was starting to take a toll on me now that the adrenaline was wearing off. My neck hurt and I thought I might have sprained my right knee. I was about to go into the bathroom to look for some ibuprofen when a car pulled into the driveway.

  I was instantly alert. I moved off to the side of the window so I could peek out, hopefully without being seen. It was a gray SUV. The vehicle was approaching slowly. I looked over at Emily’s dad—he hadn’t moved. I was trying to decide what to do when the driver accelerated and a few seconds later, they were right in front of the house—right in front of me. The car stopped, and both front doors flew open. I braced myself, thinking they would come running into the house. I flicked the safety off and took a deep breath.

  CALM, I thought, Remain calm—

  It was Emily. She waved from the passenger seat. The driver, a middle-aged man in a grey suit, stepped out and looked around. I figured he had to be a federal agent. He just looked like one—grey suit, sunglasses, dour expression, and all.

  Emily’s father chose that moment to let out a large amount of flatulence. It was lengthy and loud, reminiscent of a thunder burst from a powerful storm. I took that as my cue to leave. I ran down the steps and out the front door. Emily told me to get in the back seat and stay low. I obeyed gratefully. She went inside to say goodbye.

  The agent’s name was Gibbons. I didn’t catch a first name. He was a short, trim white man of about fifty, with a balding dome that he had shaved clean. He glanced skeptically at my football jersey and tiny jeans. “So… you’re a doctor?” he asked, but before I had time to answer we were headed out of the driveway. He drove into town while I lay in the back seat and kept my head down. He asked us to turn off location services on our phones, which we did.

  “Where are we going?” I asked the front seat.

  “Somewhere safe where we can talk,” Gibbons said. He asked Emily to lie her seat back as far as possible and put her deputy hat over her eyes, as though she was napping. He wanted to at least make an attempt to keep the location of the safe house hidden—even from us. I lay on the floor like a good dog. Ten minutes later we were pulling into the driveway of an isolated house. The SUV stopped and we all climbed out. I stretched and took in the view. I could see a ridgeline that I recognized from the hills above my house.

  “Technically, I should confiscate your phones,” he said, “But I imagine you wouldn’t agree to that, and I can’t force you. So, I guess we’ll have to trust each other. You can get cleaned up inside if you need to,” Agent Gibbons said. We all went inside the two-story A-frame. It looked like it was new in the 1990s but never updated, with scuff marks on every wall and every piece of furniture. It had an open floor plan on the second floor with a combined kitchen and living room and wood stove. The house was decorated in a style I can only describe as ‘federal utilitarian’—nothing that betrayed a personality or uniqueness. It was early afternoon and the light came streaming through the many windows that comprised the front of the house. Gibbons took his jacket off and hung it up, washed his hands, and began taking food out of the fridge. “I’m going to make some lunch,” he said, “And we can chat while we eat. Does anyone else want tuna salad?” I just stared. It seemed so ridiculous. Is he serious? I thought. Does he know I’m on the run from a deadly cult?

  I was speechless so I gave up and started helping with the meal preparation. I found a bag of potato chips and a carton of lemonade. I set out paper plates and napkins. I sliced up some apples and put them on a plate. When we were ready to eat, we sat down at the small kitchen table. I was about to dig in when I saw that Emily had her eyes closed. She was praying. For ten seconds she murmured to herself and I didn’t know what to do. Gibbons looked annoyed. Then she opened her eyes and it was time to eat.

  “So, Dr. O’Neill,” Agent Gibbons said, taking a bite of tuna sandwich, “Tell me everything you know about the MCP.”

  Chapter 11

  Gibbons listened as I explained everything that had happened up to that point. He knew most of it, but I spared no detail anyway. I explained about the young woman who had been killed by inhalation burns. I described the scripture on her chest and back. I told him about the second victim. I confessed about the night that the Lancasters and I had done a little ‘reconnaissance’ at the MCP – Gibbons only comment was, “that was stupid”—and how Gary Lancaster had been bitten by a dog that they both swore was not a normal canine. I told him about the Lancasters dying the next night in a mysterious house fire. I told him that they had taken video footage inside the MCP compound but that it had presumably been lost in the fire. I told him about the grey Chevy truck trying to turn me into a road pancake. He listened intently as he munched tuna and chips.

  Then it was Emily’s turn. She told Gibbons all about a man who had escaped from the MCP. She said that he refused to testify without assurance of a successful conviction—which, of course, could never be guaranteed. She explained that he was an ex-heroin addict. He had wanted to escape the MCP for months and one day he had gotten lucky. She talked about the tracking devices they implanted in their members. She explained about the scales that weighed vehicles going in and out of the compound. She talked about the airfield and how this man thought they might have an illegal drug smuggling operation. She talked about warehouses and industrial operations that Reverend Thompson wouldn’t let her see. She said that her confidential informant was certain that the MCP was murdering people within its ranks—people who were nonbelievers, people who had broken the rules. She said that he had alluded to a “bounty hunter” who did the dirty work for the MCP, a man known only as the Seraphim. Lastly, she explained that her informant couldn’t reconcile why the MCP was openly murdering people, whereas in the past they had been very discreet whenever they had ‘disappeared’ someone. “He thinks… well, because of the
scripture on the second victim… he thinks that ‘judgement day’ is coming. Or at least, he thinks that the MCP believes that to be the case.”

  Gibbons just stared out the window at the afternoon sun on the distant ridgeline. I decided to brew some coffee—I found a big can of Folgers and made a pot. I poured cups for all of us.

  “Thanks,” Agent Gibbons said, deep in thought. Emily and I just waited. I think he may have been contemplating how much to share with us. After a few minutes he spoke.

  “The MCP has been an open case in the Denver FBI office for ten years,” he said, “But I’ve only been assigned to them for the past year. Your friend is right about one thing—they’ve never done anything like this before. They’ve been suspected of all sorts of white-collar crimes—embezzlement, racketeering and coercion—but we’ve never been able to penetrate their veil of secrecy. We can’t get anyone inside those walls, so we don’t know what happens in there. They stay largely out of the spotlight. When people are allowed in—like social workers, or law enforcement—the MCP puts on a show and pretends like everything is perfect. Everyone dances to the same tune and says how life is wonderful and nothing bad ever happens there. It’s kind of a joke in the Denver office. What’s the best place to be in law enforcement? Hawk Claw County, of course. It has the lowest per capita crime rate of any place on earth. Twenty thousand people living there for the last ten years and not so much as a jaywalking ticket.”

  “That seems to have changed,” I said.

  “Apparently. But the question is why?”

  “Maybe they really think judgement day is just around the corner,” Emily said.

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t buy it?” Emily asked.

  “Well, I may be reading too much into it—I can’t say this is based on anything specific,” Gibbons went on, “But everything Burke’s done in the past has been calculated. Even how he got here from Vegas—it was a shrewd move to escape his creditors—he started a religion and declared bankruptcy, and suddenly he had a tax-exempt organization… but before then, there’s no mention of religion in Burke’s file.”