Apocalypse

by Paul Lalonde

  Parker had ignored the speech, standing by the window as the cattle trucks arrived, each unloading more and more of the followers of the Deceiver.

  “There are more of these Haters than any of us dared to believe,” he said. “If they keep pouring in like this, I don’t know how we’re going to process them all.”

  But, even as he spoke, he knew that ultimately this was not about reeducation. The new followers of the Deceiver had come to see the raptured as proof of the truth of the Bible. They would happily go to their deaths before renouncing Jesus.

  It was the ones who remained undecided, who had heard enough rumors to question the Messiah but were not yet committed to the Deceiver, who needed to be convinced. Maybe once they see their beloved Bronson Pearl executed on national television, they’ll take a step back, Parker thought. If they’d rather die than worship the Messiah . . . well, that’s their choice. But make no mistake, we will crush anyone who stands in our way.

  In the holding area, a loudspeaker broadcast the new speech by Macalousso while an elderly woman sat on the ground, her head down as if sleeping.

  “This is a day of unity, of love, and of peace,” said the amplified voice of Macalousso. “It is time for you to join me as I show you the way of total surrender.”

  “Hey, what is that old woman doing?” demanded one of the guards watching with binoculars from the top of the stadium.

  “Sleeping, it looks like,” said a second, straining to see.

  “Her lips are moving, and the way she’s holding her hands . . . ,” the first guard replied. “Radio down there to check her out.”

  “It was written long ago that God is love,” said Macalousso’s voice. “Have I not shown you great love?”

  “It’s a Bible,” the radio crackled, as guards raced over to the old woman, grabbing the small book from her hands and tearing out the pages. She was hauled roughly to her feet. “That should have been burned before you got here,” they shouted. “How’d you hide it?”

  The woman was silent.

  “I want this one taken to the infirmary and strip-searched to see what else she’s hiding,” the commander ordered.

  The guard put the woman in a painful wrist hold, dragging her toward one of the exits. Another prisoner tried to stop him and another guard rushed over, striking him with the butt of a rifle, dislocating his jaw, and sending him sprawling to the ground.

  “. . . Do you not feel a new love burning in your hearts?” Macalousso continued. “A new love for life and for each other? That is the love of God. And I can give it to you, for I am the Lord.”

  It was nightfall when the guards forced the prisoners back into the cattle cars that had brought them to the stadium. There were hundreds of new Christians being held, and they greatly outnumbered the soldiers. If there was a riot, they might have even gained control of the holding area, which was why Parker insisted they be caged during the hanging of Bronson Pearl.

  There was no time to build a proper gallows, but a less sophisticated version had the same results. A noose had been rigged between two cattle cars, and a camera placed to record the event as the trapped prisoners watched helplessly.

  “Hey, Pearl, ready to show the world what kind of hero you really are?” shouted one of the guards as he opened the stepladder for Bronson to stand for his execution.

  “Get ready to meet that God of yours, Pearl,” taunted another guard. “Mine’s already down here with me.”

  The men who were crowded together with Bronson were silent. Some were praying, others were trying to find words of comfort while a few wept openly, unsure whether their tears were for God, Bronson, or themselves.

  “Hey, it’s okay, you guys,” said the condemned man. “Our hope is not in this world. Never has been. So I’m leaving this place a little earlier than I planned. At least I know the truth I was once too blind to see. We should thank God for giving us all a second chance.”

  “Amen,” said one voice. “Praise the Lord,” said another. “Amen to that.” “Thank You, Jesus.”

  Len Parker and several guards walked to the truck where four men positioned themselves, two on each side of the door, their automatic weapons pointed at the prisoners as two other guards opened the door.

  The door opened and two guards roughly pulled Bronson from the truck. One of them kicked him in the back of the knees and knocked him to the ground. His wrists were bound behind his back, and he was pulled to his feet and dragged toward the gallows.

  Inside one of the women’s trucks, Helen watched with horror. She knew she should not have waited so long to tell Bronson she would marry him. Her grandmother had been right. Now her grandmother was gone, and soon . . .

  One of the other women began singing “Because He Lives,” her voice growing louder and bolder. By the time she reached the chorus, others in the holding yard had joined in. Len Parker was livid, yet there was nothing he could do short of killing them all, and mass murder for the moment would have to wait.

  Bronson looked over to Helen, their eyes meeting. Their love for each other was like a spark jumping between them. As Bronson was forced up the small stepladder, the noose placed around his neck, he heard Helen scream, “No! No! You can’t do this!”

  “But we can,” said Parker. “Tonight is the ultimate ratings test. From what I hear, the death of Bronson Pearl will win its time slot with a bigger audience than the Olympics. In fact, we just might make this a two-night event.”

  “Our hope is not in this world, Parker,” she replied.

  Parker turned to the guard who was to kick the ladder from under Bronson. “Just a few seconds more. The Messiah said to wait exactly for midnight.”

  On one wall of the holding area, a giant-screen television showed a close-up of Bronson, his neck in the noose, an image that was being broadcast around the world.

  “Twenty seconds to go,” said Parker. “Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.”

  Suddenly Bronson’s voice could be heard. “I’m Bronson Pearl, and for those of you who have watched my broadcasts over the years, you know that I’ve always told you the truth as I knew it.” The voice was coming from the monitor speaker and Parker looked up in horror, watching a repeat of Bronson’s last broadcast.

  “Who in hell put that into the broadcast feed?” he shrieked.

  “I was in the valley of Armageddon when the war we all so desperately feared began,” Bronson continued. “I was present when President Macalousso arrived.”

  “Somebody get through to New York,” Parker shouted. “Find out what’s going on. Tell the guards to kill anyone they see. Tell the guards . . .” Parker halted, realizing he was powerless.

  At that moment Bronson began to lose his balance. “Grab him!” shouted Parker. “Don’t let him die until the whole world is watching. The Messiah has ordered it.”

  “Franco Macalousso is not the Messiah,” Bronson was saying. “He has not returned to save the planet from evil.”

  One of the guards grabbed Bronson, forcing him back on the ladder. As a precaution, he took off the noose but left his wrists still bound.

  “President Macalousso is the Antichrist. He is not who he says he is,” Bronson’s voice thundered.

  “The twelve-second delay,” shouted Parker. “There’s supposed to be a twelve-second delay.”

  “President Macalousso is the Antichrist.” The words echoed.

  In the WNN control room, an agent sat smiling, looking at the two Parker guards he had handcuffed and gagged on the floor in front of him. “You men didn’t go through the academy, did you?” he asked. They stared at him, silent, unable to reply.

  “One of the things they taught us was to understand a man’s weakness,” the agent continued. He paused, listening to Bronson’s comments being broadcast to every part of the world. “Some fears are justified, of course,” the mysterious man continued. “But some fears reveal a weakness you can use. A man might be afraid of the dark, so you know you should plan your attack by night. And so we come to
Franco Macalousso, this self-proclaimed Messiah.”

  The guards looked startled. This agent had been one of the inner circle.

  “I have known Franco Macalousso from the beginning,” he said. “I witnessed the miracles, and yes, I do believe they were miracles. One day I’ll ask the real Messiah how it happened, but I guess we have a few years until that happens.” He smiled. “I can see by your eyes that you have questions. Well, come to our Father’s house and hopefully you will understand. Do you know what Franco Macalousso’s real weakness is, gentlemen? It’s truth. He is the Antichrist, and as my late mother used to say when I was too stupid to get it, Jesus is Lord! Hallelujah!”

  Len Parker was terrified. He had lost all control of the events the Messiah had placed him in charge of. On the giant screen, he was watching a carefully made broadcast of audio and video material secretly recorded over the past few days. Only an insider with access to the tapes could have done it, and the only insider whose background included specialized electronic training was a certain agent back in New York. But there was no way . . .

  Parker suddenly heard his own voice, recorded during the conversation with Helen Hannah. “Don’t mistake our talk of peace and unity for weakness,” he was saying.

  Helen’s voice came up loud and clear, “I think the serpent did the same thing in the Garden of Eden.”

  The damning conversation continued as security officers tried to break into the control room where the nameless agent was broadcasting.

  The voices coming over the studio monitors began to drift over the prison camp. The image switched to a Jack Van Impe broadcast tape.

  “True salvation and everlasting life are God’s gift to everyone,” the preacher said. “And all you have to do is ask Him, with an open mind and an open heart. If you want Jesus to come into your life right now, then bow your heads and join me in praying the sinner’s prayer.”

  In Mexico City, in a crowded cantina, several men watched a television screen. A few laughed derisively and one grabbed a handful of jalapêno peppers and hurled them at the screen. But off to the far end of the bar, a worker in worn coveralls and muddy boots, his face caked with dried sweat, set aside his beer, slid to his knees, and bowed his head in prayer.

  Others from around the world joined the Mexican worker, together reciting along with Jack Van Impe, “Dear Lord, I know that I am a sinner. But please come into my life . . .”

  Len Parker was screaming hysterically at the guards, trying to get them to turn off the monitor. He grabbed a rifle, aimed at the monitor, and began firing. It exploded and shards of glass littered the yard. But the sound continued from the speakers, the words of praise and truth unsilenced.

  It was then that a light appeared, not lightning, though lightning was Parker’s first thought when he saw the flash. It struck one of the cattle trucks with laserlike intensity and there was a crashing sound, which Parker realized was the giant door of the truck falling open.

  “Shoot any hater who tries to escape!” he shouted, looking frantically for the traitor who had opened the door.

  There was another flash and the second door crashed to the ground as some of the prisoners began singing “Amazing Grace.”

  “Shut up!” screamed a guard holding a machine gun. “Shut up or I’ll blow a hole in every last one of you.”

  Another flash struck the weapon. The guard screamed, dropping the machine gun, his hands suddenly blistered as though thrust into fire. The weapon lay on the grass, sizzling in the night dew.

  The prisoners began filing from the trucks, moving quickly but no longer afraid. They would not die tonight. The time of trial was just beginning, of that they were sure. But they would endure because the Lord was with them. This was His battle, and He had triumphed.

  Helen ran to Bronson and untied his wrists. They clung to one another as Len Parker rushed toward them, brandishing his rifle. One of the prisoners tackled him, knocking the gun from his hands, and dragged him into one of the cattle cars, his hands cuffed to the slats.

  “You can’t stop the inevitable!” Parker screamed. “You know that, don’t you? There’s nothing you can do to change the future.”

  Bronson and Helen walked over to him. “Come on, Len,” Helen said. “I’m sure you read the Book. Didn’t you get to the end? Your buddy’s got a little time for bluster and parlor tricks. But he’s the Antichrist. Don’t you get it? He’s in the Book. Jesus is in the book. In a sense, we’re all in the Book. And you know what? No matter what you do. No matter what your false Messiah says, in the end, God wins!”

  Before Parker could respond, a patrol car came racing onto the prison grounds, sirens blaring and lights flashing. It pulled to a stop in front of Helen and Bronson, the driver leaning across the seat to open the door. “Get in, you two,” he said. “It took a miracle to get out here. I don’t think I’m going to have another one tonight.”

  Helen, surprised, stared into the face of the mysterious agent.

  “Yes, now will you get in?” he said, smiling. “I’m all alone here, and you remember what it says, ‘wherever two or three are gathered in My name . . .’”

  “Hallelujah,” said Bronson, helping Hannah inside then closing the door as the car picked up speed. “I can’t wait for Macalousso to hear about the ratings for tonight’s broadcast.”